OUR  HILL 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

BEQUEST  OF 

Alice  R.   Hilgard 


BY  JOSEPHINE  DASKAM  BACON 

ON  OUR  HILL 

THE  DOMESTIC  ADVENTURERS 
SMITH  COLLEGE  STORIES 
WHOM  THE  GODS  DESTROYED 
MIDDLE  AGED  LOVE  STORIES 

SISTER'S    VOCATION    AND    OTHER    GIRLS' 
STORIES 

THE  IMP  AND  THE  ANGEL 
FABLES  FOR  THE  FAIR 

POEMS 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


ON    OUR    HILL 


Our  Family  looks  discreetly  away  into  space  while  Our  Mother  buys 
the  stocking  toys  [Page  118] 


ON 
OUR  HILL 

BY 

JOSEPHINE    DASKAM  , BACON 


WITH      ILLUSTRATIONS      BY 

T.   M.   AND   M.  T.   BEVANS 


NEW    YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BT 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  September,  1918 


COPYRIGHT,  me,  1917,  BY  THE  BUTTERICK  PUBLISHING  CO. 


GIFT 


z. 


1J 


TO     ANNE  (RESPECTFULLY) 

TO   DEBORAH     (ADMIRINGLY) 
TO    SELDEN          (ADORINGLY) 

THIS    BOOK    IS    DEDICATED    BY   THEIR 
LOVING    MOTHER 


BEECH  HILL,  1918 


DEDICATION 

DEAR  ones,  for  whom  your  Mother's  heart  of  hearts 
Like  Gaul  of  old,  divides  into  three  parts, 
Low  at  your  feet  this  little  book  she  lays, 
Fond  record  of  your  years  and  nights  and  days, 
Your  solemn  little  joys  and  funny  sorrows, 
Gold  yesterdays  and  rose-colored  to-morrows. 

Oh,  Prima,  of  the  blue,  accusing  eye, 

Pass  all  my  errors  with  indulgence  by ! 

Secunda,  of  your  airy,  careless  grace, 

Deign  in  your  sunny  heart  to  keep  my  place ! 

Tertius,  in  whose  grave  smile  my  lost  youth  lingers, 

Let  your  hands  warm  at  the  last  my  chilling  fingers ! 

When  you  are  old,  read  here  of  those  dear  days 
When  your  great  glory  was  your  mother's  praise, 
When  your  worst  sorrow  was  your  mother's  frown, 
Her  kiss  at  rising  up  and  lying  down 
The  daily  bread  your  aging  heart  remembers— 
June  roses  through  the  snow  of  your  Decembers. 

Here  shall  ye  live,  kept  ever  young  by  me ! 
Though  I  am  old,  yet  ye  shall  never  be. 
In  these,  your  pages,  laugh  eternally! 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

ONE  OF  OUR  LUNCHEONS 1 

WE  VISIT  THE  ZOO 37 

THE  ROYAL  ROAD  TO  LEARNING 75 

HIGH  DAYS  AND  HOLY  DAYS 107 

A  YEAR  OF  COUSIN  QUARTUS 139 

EXITS  AND  ENTRANCES   . 179 

MAGIC  CASEMENTS 221 

OUR  FIRST  FRIENDS 263 

PRESTO  !   CHANGE  !  .     ,  .299 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Our  Family  looks  discreetly  away  into  space  while  Our  Mother 

buys  the  stocking  toys Frontispiece 

PAGE 

"I'm  going  to  wipe  my  mouth  now,"  says  Tertius    ....  9 

"  His  house  was  called  Mount  Vernon  " 29 

Secunda  executes  the  most  perfect  pirouette 31 

"  I'm  just  licking  it  to  see  if  it's  good  for  you  " 33 

"Good-by!     Pleasant  dreams!  " 35 

The  procession  required  some  time  to  pass  a  given  point     .      .  45 

"A  noble  army,  men  and  boys,"  shout  Tertius  and  his  choir  53 

Tertius  gazes  dreamily,  contentedly,  at  the  fluffy  brown  bough 

of  cuddling  mites 58 

His  eyes  never  leave  the  admiring  eyes  of  his  audience   ...  65 

The  bears  depart  to  the  various  corners  of  their  den  ....  68 

The  most  truly  humorous  objects  on  Manhattan  Island     .      .  69 

Dancing  their  hard -learned  little  dances  under  the  pink  apple- 
blossoms      95 

She  is  tense  with  pride  in  her  school  and  her  part      ....  99 

The  tree  must  be  filled  again  for  the  children  in  the  stable  and 

the  cottage        .      .                  Facing  page  128 

Tertius 146 

Cousin  Quartus 147 

Our  Cousin  lay  mooning  over  a  book  while  the  old  Gloucester 

hammock  rocked,  a  pirate  sloop,  in  terrific  gales      ...  151 

xi 


xii  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Between  the  girls,   with  a  view  to  increasing  his  devotional 

velocity 165 

"Whoof,    whoof!"      Tertius    contributes.     "Over    you    go, 

Quart!" 175 

"  I  will  follow!     Death  to  the  Saracen!"  cries  Secunda 

facing  page  196 

Prima  was  little  Hans,  poor  but  honest  ........  205 

"I'm  an  Arab  —  look!  "       .     .     .      .     .      .     .     .     .  '.     .     .208 

Tertius  sits  like  a  statue  of  victory! 211 

Tertius  is  about  to  begin.      Now  he  makes  a  quaint  little  bow  217 

*'  Perhaps  not  —  an?/  more,"  says  Our  Mother,  and  she  fell  to 

thinking  why  this  should  be 227 

**  Is  this  going  to  be  true,"  he  inquired  gravely,  "  or  only  just 

interesting?  " 259 

Her  frilled  sunbonnet  was  of tener  over  his  head  than  hers        .  271 

One  green  paroquet  died  in  circumstances  of  deepest  mystery 

Facing  page  282 

They  gather  the  damp  and  squirming  poodle  to  their  smocks, 

and  roll,  scattering  spray  about 295 

How  disgusting  they  are  —  like  other  people's  children!       .      .  309 

No  last  spring's  skirts  reach  her  knees 322 

Now  they  are  going  to  see  the  skeleton  of  the  dinosaurus    .      .  331 

"  You  can't  sit  much  longer  on  my  lap  " 335 


ONE    OF    OUR    LUNCHEONS 


CAKES  AND  ALE 

CAKE  and  lemonade  means  veranda, 
Tea  and  buttered  toast  means  the  hall; 
But  if  we  are  eating  it  together, 
Then  the  place  matters  not  at  all. 

Sandwiches  and  eggs  means  the  lakeside, 
Sandwiches  and  fruit  means  the  beach; 
Let  us  always  go  there  together, 
Sharing  what  we  have,  each  with  each. 

Give  thanks  in  turkey  and  in  pumpkin, 
Watch  how  the  Christmas  pudding  flames; 
Only  let  us  do  it  all  together, 
Crowning  the  seasons  with  our  games. 

Marmalade  shall  comfort  you  at  breakfast, 
Peppermints  shall  soothe  with  your  tea, 
Chocolates  shall  draw  us  all  together — 
Will  you  always  eat  them  with  me? 


ONE    OF    OUR    LUNCHEONS 

USED  to  think,"  Secunda  began  dreamily, 

-••   poising  her  soup-spoon  at  a  perilous,  not  to 

say  flighty,  angle,  her  eyes  focussed  on  infinite 

space,  "I  used  to  think  that  people's  bones  was 

like  prune-bones.     Wasn't  that  funny?" 

"Were  like  prune  —  what  on  earth  do  you 
mean,  Kiddie?"  Our  Governess  paused,  bafHed. 
A  shade  of  doubt  darkened  her  round,  clear  eyes; 
obviously,  one  doesn't  say  "was  like  prune-bones  "; 
one  employs  the  plural  verb.  But  the  ethics 
of  infant  correction  are  complicated.  Is  it  better 
to  present  the  world  with  a  flawless  grammatical 
sentence  whose  content  is  idiotic,  or  shall  we 
allow  failure  to  convey  any  sense  to  one's  table- 
mates  to  cover  syntactical  lapses  ?  Even  Britan 
nia,  she  who  keeps  the  sun  so  busily  occupied  in 
never  setting  on  her  possessions,  has  omitted  this 
fine  distinction  from  the  curriculum  with  which 
she  provides  her  exiles  to  more  nasal  shores. 

'You  mean,  all  in  one  piece,  lambie?"  asked 
Mother. 

Amazing  woman  !     Our  Governess  never  ceased 

5 


6  ON    OUR    HILL 

to  marvel  at  her.  There  she  would  sit,  paying  no 
attention,  apparently,  her  mind  lost  in  some  flight 
they  could  none  of  them  fathom.  Was  she  dream 
ing  away  from  them  in  that  mysterious  New 
York,  that  swallowed  her  as  the  arching  vault 
swallows  a  comet;  or  was  she  thinking  with  her 
imaginary  characters  —  those  beings  that  never 
lived  till  she  thought  of  them;  or  was  she  fitting, 
in  efficient  fancy,  Prima's  altered  smock-frocks  to 
Secunda's  slender  shoulders?  You  never  knew. 
And  yet,  one  allusion  from  a  volatile-minded  in 
fant,  impenetrable  even  to  the  infant's  nursery 
peers,  and  she  answered  it  immediately.  Far 
from  being  dark  to  her,  it  was  clear,  simple,  even 
stimulating. 

"Yes,"  said  Secunda  contentedly,  "like  prune- 
bones." 

"You  don't  say  prune-bones;  you  say  prune- 
seeds,"  Prima  corrected  heavily.  "How  silly  you 
are,  Secunda,  anyway!  And  you're  eating  your 
soup  from  the  front  again." 

"Pits,  dear,  prune-pits,"  said  Our  Governess 
pacifically.  "Be  careful  of  your  butter,  Prima. 
Mother  doesn't  like  you  to  spread  the  whole  piece, 
that  way." 

"It  has  to  be  all  spread  some  time,  and  I  don't 


ONE    OF    OUR    LUNCHEONS     7 

get  nearly  so  much  on  my  fingers,  that  way. 
What  are  prune-seeds,  anyhow,  if  they're  not 
prune-pits?  Wouldn't  you  plant  one,  if  you 
wanted  it  to  grow  ?  " 

Prima  is  a  fine  child  and  a  credit  to  her  father's 
family,  whom  she  resembles  en  masse  and  in  de 
tail,  but  her  manner  (notably  on  Tuesdays,  when 
they  administer  the  arithmetic  tests)  is  a  little 
trying. 

"It's  quite  the  same  thing,  dear,  I  don't  doubt," 
said  Our  Governess  resignedly. 

"No.  People  are  not  prunes,"  Tertius  declared 
boomingly.  "A  prune  is  a  foolish  thing  to  be 
like.  Secunda  is  an  awfully  foolish  girl." 

"I  didn't  say  they  were!" 

Secunda's  cheeks  were  crimson,  her  violet  eyes 
shot  sparks,  her  bronze  curls  quivered  about  her 
ears. 

"I  said  I  used  to  think  their  bones  was " 

"'Were,' darling " 

"And,  anyhow,  they  couldn't  be.  I  hope 
we'll  have  veal  again.  What  is  veal  in  French, 
Mother?" 

"It's  veau  —  surely  you  know  that?  Really, 
Prima,  you  are  getting  a  little  tiresome.  Why 
couldn't  people's  bones,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  be  in 


8  ON    OUR    HILL 

one  piece?  Of  course  they're  not,  but  if  you  are 
so  sure  they  couldn't  be,  suppose  you  tell  us 
why." 

"Oh,  Mother!" 

"Well,  then,  say  why!"  Secunda  urged  trium 
phantly,  "say  why,  if  you  know  so  much !" 

"I  can  perfectly  well  imagine,"  Our  Mother  pur 
sued  thoughtfully,  "a  sort  of  pulpy  body,  all  tight 
around  one  big  central  bone  ...  it  might  have 
been  that  way  ...  of  course.  When  you  come 
down  to  it,  that's  what  the  spine  is.  .  .  ." 

"I  know!  I  know!  You  couldn't  walk!" 
Secunda  cried.  'You  couldn't  walk,  don't  you 
see?  You'd  lie  there,  but  you  couldn't  walk! 
Isn't  that  why,  Mother?" 

"Pooh!  Anybody  knows  that,"  said  Prima 
jealously.  (It  must  be  admitted,  Prima  is  a  little 
jealous.)  "We  don't  need  you  to  tell  us  that!" 

"Prunes  can't  walk.  We  all  know  that,"  in 
toned  Tertius. 

Secunda  ground  her  teeth. 

Our  Mother  snatched  for  her  son's  hand  and 
kissed  it  ecstatically. 

"You  beautiful,  angel  donkey!"  she  cried. 
"You  adorable  rabbit!  Have  you  anything  for 
Mother?" 


ONE    OF    OUR    LUNCHEONS    11 

"Wait  till  I  wipe  my  mouth,"  said  Tertius 
gravely. 

They  all  waited. 

"Thank  you,  precious,"  Our  Mother  said,  "y°u 
kiss  beautifully.  But  I  hope  that  you're  not 
going  to  be  a  stupid  man,  just  because  you'll  be  a 
bewitching  one  —  are  you?" 

"N-no,  I  don't  believe  so,"  he  assured  her  com 
fortingly.  "I'll  always  be  yours,  you  know." 

"Oh,  how  wonderful  of  you  —  how  perfectly 
wonderful!"  she  cried,  and  took  to  kissing  his 
wrists,  so  that  the  waitress  couldn't  pass  the  spin 
ach  and  the  creamed  potatoes  at  all. 

"Tertius  doesn't  mean  to  be  half  as  wonderful 
as  Mother  thinks,"  Prima  objected,  lifting  three 
pieces  of  veal  off  the  platter  under  cover  of  the 
kissing. 

"He  always  says,  'I'll  always  be  your  own  boy, 
you  know,'  just  like  that,  and  smiles,  and  it  only 
means  he  doesn't  understand  what  you're  saying, 
half  the  time!" 

"All  the  cleverer  of  him,  in  that  case,"  returned 
Our  Mother  composedly.  "I  can't  imagine  a 
more  generally  useful  answer  for  a  man  under  any 
circumstances  —  can  you?" 

They  giggled  vaguely.     But  Prima  returned  to 


12  ON    OUR    HILL 

the  attack,  fortified  by  a  more  than  adequate 
mouthful  of  spinach  and  creamed  potatoes. 

"Then  why  did  you  say  you  hoped  he  wasn't 
going  to  be  a  stupid?"  she  demanded,  fixing  her 
round  blue  eyes  implacably  upon  Our  Mother. 

"Because,"  answered  Our  Mother  imperturba- 
bly,  "when  a  gentleman  is  invited  to  kiss  a  lady 
and  replies  that  he  will  when  he  has  wiped  his 
mouth,  one  fears,  somehow,  for  his  future  success 
—  doesn't  one?" 

Here  Our  Governess  choked,  then  gasped,  then 
spluttered  into  laughter,  and  had  to  drink  a  great 
deal  of  water. 

"You  do  say  such  funny  things!"  she  apolo 
gized. 

"Of  course  she  does.  She  writes  books,"  said 
Prima  instructively. 

"  So  you  see,  Prima,  you  were  wrong  two  times  ! " 
carolled  Secunda  joyously.  "You  were  wrong 
about  Tertius  being  clever  and  you  were  wrong 
about  the  prune-bones;  that  makes  two." 

"I  wras  not  wrong  about  the  prune-bones  —  I 
was  perfectly  all  right,"  Prima  returned  haughtily. 
"A  pit  is  one  thing  and  a  skeleton  is  another. 
So  there!" 

"No,"  and  Secunda's  eyes  deepened;  a  mystic 


ONE    OF    OUR    LUNCHEONS    13 

tone  crept  into  her  voice,  a  merry  chatterbox  of  a 
voice,  for  the  most  part;  "no,  Prima,  I  was  right 
from  the  first.  A  pit  is  the  skeleton  of  a  prune, 
and  a  skeleton  is  the  pit  of  a  person  .  .  .  don't 
you  see?  You  can  say  it  either  way  .  .  ." 

"Oh  !  You  can  say  anything  any  way !"  cried 
Prima,  exasperated,  "but  that  doesn't  make  you 
always  right,  miss !  A  bone  is  a  bone " 

"Joseph  was  in  a  pit,  but  prunes  are  not  people," 
Tertius  chanted  warningly.  "Secunda  is  a  fool 
ish  girl." 

"That  will  do,"  said  Our  Mother  definitely. 
"I  wish  to  hear  no  further  conversation  about 
bones.  Do  you  like  veal,  angel?" 

"Yes.  Is  it  a  little  lamb  or  a  little  beef?"  he 
asked. 

"  '  Little  Lamb,  who  made  thee  ? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee  ? '  " 

Secunda  murmured  rhythmically.  "I'll  have  some 
more  spinach  and  some  more  butter,  and  some 
more  water,  please." 

"There!  You've  slopped  it!  —  all  because  you 
were  staring  out  of  the  window  and  saying  poetry  ! 
I  think  it's  too  silly  of  Secunda,  Mother.  Every 
time  anybody  says  a  word  that  sounds  like  a  word 


14  ON    OUR    HILL 

in  a  poem,  she  says  the  poem  directly.     'Little 
Lamb,  who  made  thee?' —  the  idea!" 

"  *  Gave  thee  such  a  pleasant  voice, 

Making  all  the  vales  rejoice/— William  Blake.9* 

Secunda  went  on  softly. 

"Isn't  it  disgusting,  Mother?  That  poem 
doesn't  mean  the  veal  kind  of  lamb;  it  means  the 
real  kind  of  lamb  !  Make  her  stop  !" 

Our  Mother  smiled  curiously. 

"'The  veal  kind  of  lamb,  and  the  real  kind  of 
lamb,'"  she  repeated  gently.  "That's  just  the 
point.  Which  should  you  say  was  the  real  kind 
of  lamb,  now?  The  essential  lamb,  the  ding-an- 
sich  ?  There's  Kant's  lamb  —  the  transcendental- 
unity-of -apperception  lamb  —  and  William  Blake's 
lamb,  and  the  butcher's  lamb  .  .  .  but  that's  Plato, 
darlings,  pure  Plato!" 

"All  lamb  comes  onto  a  plate,  by  and  by,"  said 
Tertius  oracularly. 

"Oh,  you  angel  treasure !  You  beautiful,  beau 
tiful  thing!"  Our  Mother  cried,  and  kissed  the 
back  of  his  neck  violently.  "You  are  a  Maeter 
linck  seraph  !  You're  an  Emersonian 

"But  I  don't  understand,"  Our  Governess  in 
terrupted,  wrinkling  her  white  English  forehead 


ONE    OF    OUR    LUNCHEONS     15 

conscientiously,  "doesn't  veal  come  from  a  calf, 
really?" 

And  Our  Mother  laughed  all  through  the  clear 
ing  off  and  crumbing  the  table. 

"When  you  say  things,  Miss  Paul  laughs,  and 
when  she  says  things,  you  laugh,"  the  Maeterlinck 
seraph  observed  mildly. 

Our  Governess  turned  a  lovely  pink. 

"It's  not  that,  really,"  she  explained,  "but 
Mother's  mind  moves  so  quickly  —  we  seem  to  be 
talking  about  so  many  different  kinds  of  things, 
you  see  .  .  .  one  moment  it's  quite  deep,  and 
directly  after  it  seems  to  be  ...  almost  nonsense 
...  I  think  Americans  have  a  different  sort  of 
conversation  to  ours,  don't  you  think?" 

"Very  likely,"  Our  Mother  agreed  gravely. 
"It  must  be  the  climate." 

"So  changeable — I  know,"  murmured  Our  Gov 
erness,  relieved. 

"I  think,  myself,  we  talk  a  little  like  Alice  in 
Wonderland,"  Our  Mother  admitted,  "but  I  think 
most  people  really  do,  you  know,  that  have  any 
sense.  You  only  talk  like  the  Rollo  Books  in  the 
Rollo  Books.  People  don't  talk  in  paragraphs, 
really." 

"We're  up  to  paragraphs,  now,  in  English," 


16  ON    OUR    HILL 

Prima  announced.  "  I  got  a  star  for  my  paragraph 
that  I  made.  It  was  a  paragraph  about  Wash 
ington.  I'll  tell  it  to  you." 

"  Here !  Here !  Have  you  guessed  the  pudding  ?  " 
Tertius  cried  eagerly.  "Wait  a  moment,  will  you, 
Lena,  till  the  girls  guess  ?  I  guess  junket !" 

"I  guess  rice  —  oh,  you  know,  anyway  !  I  take 
back  my  guess.  You  saw  it  was  a  glass  dish," 
Secunda  shot  at  him  reproachfully. 

"I  didn't  see  .  .  .     I  did  not.     Guess,  Prima!" 

"Bread,  and  molasses  sauce  —  if  you  didn't 
really  see,  Tertius,"  Prima  added  severely.  "If 
you  did  see,  and  it  is  glass,  I  take  back  the  guess, 
of  course." 

"You  can't  take  it  back  —  can  she,  Miss  Paul? 
Can  she,  Mother?  You've  guessed,  and  it  is 
junket,  and  I  win !  That's  three  for  me,  because 
I  said  custard  the  other  Thursday,  and  it  was 
custard,  and  I'm  ahead !" 

"You  are  not!     You  saw!" 

"I  guessed  custard  that  day,  too!" 

"Children,  children!" 

"My  dear  young  friends,"  Our  Mother  began 
firmly,  "utterly  aside  from  the  futility  of  any 
such  conjectures,  which  are  necessarily  base 
less " 


ONE    OF    OUR    LUNCHEONS     17 

A  dead  silence  descends  upon  the  table.  How 
Our  Mother  knows  that  this  conversational  style 
will  instantly  quiet  the  impending  storm,  no  one 
can  tell,  but  that  she  does  know  is  evident. 

She  sweeps  a  rapid  glance  over  them.  Secunda 
is  scarlet  above  her  bib,  Prima  bites  a  quivering 
lip,  Miss  Paul  sits  stony. 

Only  the  Maeterlinck  seraph  is  placid;  only  his 
cheeks  have  not  varied  from  the  perfect  shell-pink 
of  a  healthy  five-year-old.  Above  his  white  bib 
with  the  China  blue  "Bebe  a  faim"  embroidered 
across  its  spinach  front,  his  eyes  send  forth  such  a 
beam  of  probity  and  conscious  worth  that  his 
mother  becomes  suddenly  troubled.  No  child 
could  be  as  good  as  Tertius  looks. 

"Baby,"  she  says  abruptly,  "who  told  you  the 
pudding  was  junket?" 

"Lena,"  he  answers  promptly.  "She  told  me 
out  of  the  pantry.  She  was  washing  something 
there.  I  was  walking  on  —  I  was  tidying  the  rho- 
dendemblums.  They  spill  pod  sort  of  things  under 
the  windows,  you  know." 

'Tertius!     You  said  you  didn't  see!"     Secun 
da's  tones  thrill. 

"Oh,  Kiddie,  that  wasn't  right !" 

Our  Governess  is  genuinely  concerned. 


18  ON    OUR    HILL 

"I  took  back  my  guess  ages  ago.  I  knew  what 
a  sneak  Tertius  is  about  puddings.  He  saw  that 
Thursday  custard  when  he  went  in  for  a  drink,  7 
always  thought." 

Prima  is  contemptuously  virtuous. 

"You  see,  Baby,"  Our  Mother  begins  (really 
sadly:  it  is  so  horrid  when  they  do  that  sort  of 
thing,  you  know  !),  "the  girls  can't  be  expected  to 
play  with  you  if  you  cheat  like  that.  It's  beastly 
.  .  .  boys  aren't  supposed  to  do  it.  You  know 
yourself  you  did  wrong 

"I'm  yours,  though  —  I'm  your  own  boy!"  he 
essays  winningly. 

But,  wonder  of  wonders,  no  kisses ! 

He  extends  his  wrists  seductively. 

But  all  their  dimples,  all  their  creases,  all  their 
pink-and-white  leave  her  unmoved. 

In  an  ecstasy  of  inspiration  he  pushes  back  his 
sleeves  and  waggles  the  veined  pearl  of  his  en 
chanting  bare  arms  at  her.  To  look  at  them  is 
to  devour  them,  as  far  as  she  is  concerned,  but  she 
only  shakes  her  head  and  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
turn  against  him. 

"I  don't  love  cheats,"  she  says  briefly.  He 
gazes  wildly  around  the  dining-room;  nothing  ap 
pears  on  the  dull  gold  of  the  Japanese  leather  of 


ONE     OF    OUR    LUNCHEONS     19 

the  walls  to  help  him,  the  polished  floor  winks  de 
rision;  the  silver  on  the  old  sideboard  glitters 
coldly.  Suddenly,  on  the  deep  window-sill,  some 
thing  moves,  drags  itself  along,  flutters  feebly. 
His  face  clears. 

"But  wapsters  cheat,"  he  cries  triumphantly, 
"wapsters  cheat  awfully!  One  that  Miss  Paul 
thought  was  all  died  long  ago,  woke  up  and 
stinged  her.  It  crawled  right  up  her  and  stinged 
her.  It  hadn't  ought  to  of,  had  it,  Mother?  It 
was  on  the  retherator  — 

"Radiator,  Kiddie." 

'That's  what  I  said,  raytherator,  and  she 
wasn't  expecting  anything,  and  it  stinged  her. 
Didn't  it,  Miss  Paul?" 

'Tertius  always  calls  wapses  'wapsters,'"  says 
Prima  coldly.  "I  think  he's  old  enough  to  stop, 
don't  you,  Mother?" 

"O  death,  where  is  thy  sting?  O  grave,  where 
is  thy  victory?" 

Secunda's  eyes  are  fixed;  her  voice  is  vibrant, 
mellow,  startlingly  mature. 

"Secunda!  You  shouldn't  say  that  .  .  ."  Our 
Governess  looks,  wavering,  at  Our  Mother. 

"Why  not?  I  think  it's  lovely.  It's  in  the 
Bible.  Don't  you  think  it's  lovely,  Mother?" 


20  ON    OUR    HILL 

"Perfectly  lovely,  lambie." 

"Huh!     The  sting  of  death  doesn't  mean  the 
same  kind  of  sting  as  the  sting  of  a  waps,"  says 
Prima  jealously.      'You're  always  doing  that- 
Miss  Paul  and  I  think  it's  silly,  don't  we,  Miss 
Paul?" 

"It  would  be  the  same,  though,  if  the  waps 
killed  you,"  Secunda  persisted  softly,  not  unfas 
tening  her  eyes  from  the  casement  window  —  "so 
Faithful  went  down  into  the  River,  and  all  the 
trumpets  sounded  for  him  on  the  other  side  .  .  .' 
Oh,  Mother,  don't  you  love  that  part  of  'Pilgrim 
Progress'?" 

"I  adore  it,  precious." 

"It's  not  proper  to  talk  about  at  lunch,  I  think," 
said  Prima.  "We're  ready  for  the  finger-bowls, 
Lena,  now.  Miss  Paul  doesn't  think  so,  either." 

Secunda  unfastened  her  eyes  with  a  snap  from 
the  casement. 

"Well,  if  I  can't  talk  about  bones  at  lunch  nor 
I  can't  talk  about  lambs  at  lunch  nor  I  can't  talk 
about  'Pilgrim  Progress'  at  lunch,  what  can  I 
talk  about?  I  hate  you,  Prima!"  she  exploded. 

"My  dear  child!" 

Our  Mother  was  very  much  amused  and  very 
sorry,  and  Secunda  relented. 


ONE    OF    OUR    LUNCHEONS    21 

"I  mean  I  hate  the  way  she  talks,"  she  amended. 

"And  I  hate  the  way  you  talk,"  Prima  returned 
calmly.  "You  don't  care  what  things  really 
mean,  Secunda;  you  know  you  don't.  You  only 
care  what  they  sound  like.  It's  one  of  your 
faults." 

''That's  what  I  like  things  for,  because  they 
sound  nice,"  Secunda  explained  patiently.  "I 
suppose  I  can,  if  I  like." 

"You  can,  but  you  oughtn't,"  Prima  pursued 
didactically.  "  Things  aren't  said  because  they 
sound  good.  They're  said  because  they're  so." 

"My  things  aren't." 

"Saint  Paul,"  suggested  Our  Mother,  "had 
both  ends  in  view,  presumably,  in  writing  his 
most  quoted  epistles.  And  really,  Prima,  if  your 
sister's  selections  coincide  with  those  chosen  for 
the  Burial  Service - 

"Oh!  I've  read  that,  too!"  cried  Secunda 
softly.  "I  read  it  in  the  sermon  time.  I  can't 
understand  him,  you  know.  Why  don't  priests 
speak  as  plain  as  acting  people  in  'Peter  Pan/ 
Mother?  I  think  they  should. 

"It  is  sown  in  corruption,  it  is  raised  in  incor- 
ruption:  it  is  sown  in  weakness;  it  is  raised  in 
power ' " 


22  ON    OUR    HILL 

"Twenty-two  horses  and  one-half  of  a  horse  is 
the  power  in  a  Ford  car,"  said  Tertius.  "I'm 
going  to  wipe  my  mouth,  now." 

They  pause,  involuntarily,  to  witness  the  rite. 
Tertius  addressing  himself  to  his  table  ablutions 
is  perhaps  at  his  best. 

First  he  pushes  his  cuffs  back  carefully.  Then 
he  arranges  the  glass  bowl  precisely  in  the  centre 
of  his  luncheon  doily,  pulls  it  a  little  nearer,  edges 
it  off  a  bit  farther. 

"I  mustn't  knock  my  water-glarss,"  he  mur 
murs,  and  invariably,  at  this  point,  does  so. 

Everybody  gasps. 

He  raises  his  lovely  eyes  apologetically  —  ah, 
who  shall  ever  describe  those  eyes  of  Tertius? 
If  you  have  never  seen  them,  of  course  you  could 
not  try;  if  you  have  seen  them,  of  course  you 
would  not  try !  Wide-spaced,  radiant,  deep- 
browed —  of  what  shade  they  may  be  no  one  has 
quite  conjectured;  so  quickly,  so  utterly  they  daz 
zle  you.  They  are  certainly  not  blue;  gray  is  a 
colorless  word  for  them;  hazel  is  trivial.  They  are 
luminous,  like  dawn  skies  reflected  in  a  still  pool. 
They  have  violet  shadows  and  steel  undertones. 

"I  tell  you  the  truth,"  says  the  little  seamstress; 
"that  boy  of  yours  gives  me  a  queer  feeling  inside 


ONE    OF    OUR    LUNCHEONS     23 

of  me  when  he  opens  those  eyes  of  his !  Seems  's 
if  he  knew  more'n  the  rest  of  us !" 

This  haunting  mystery  of  Tertius's  eyes  so 
strongly  dominates  his  pictured  images  that  pho 
tographs  fail  to  indicate,  sometimes,  his  vast 
bodily  structure:  his  legs,  those  towers  of  ivory; 
his  broad  back,  that  an  anguished  maternal  clair 
voyance  strains  after,  down  the  shambles  of  the 
football-field  (great  heavens,  which  would  be 
worse  —  to  have  him  play  the  horrid  game  or  to 
have  him  not  want  to?),  his  deep,  full  chest. 
What  words  can  ever  be  found  contemptuous 
enough  for  that  Sister-in-Law  who  wrote  Our 
Mother : 

"I  wish  my  little  boy  had  some  of  the  artistic 
sensibility  of  those  exquisite  eyes  of  your  Ter- 
tius !  I  prefer  that  type,  myself;  but  mine  is  the 
husky  sort !" 

The  husky  sort !  Hers !  Tertius,  who  weighed 
fifty  pounds  at  four  years !  Tertius,  who  takes  a 
seven-and-a-quarter  in  hat  sizes  at  five !  Tertius, 
who  needs  only  the  sleeves  slightly  shortened  at 
the  shoulder  in  an  eight-year-old  sailor-suit! 
(And,  mark  you,  all  the  stock  sizes  were  enor 
mously  enlarged,  a  few  years  ago,  and  few  be  the 
mothers  who  boast  thus  to-day.) 


24  ON    OUR    HILL 

But  all  this  only  shows  the  staggering,  the  hyp 
notic  effect  of  his  eyes. 

Now  his  lashes  sweep  his  flushing  cheeks;  now 
he  dips  his  yellow  head  and  buries  it,  apparently, 
in  the  happy  finger-bowl;  now  begins  a  ritual  as 
if  a  plump  canary  should  essay  a  Turkish  bath. 
So  intense,  so  thorough  are  his  purposes  that  all 
are  swept  away  on  the  current  of  his  enthusiasm 
and  draw  breath  hissingly  as  he  plunges  and  dis 
appears,  one  feels,  below  the  surface.  Will  he 
ever  emerge? 

He  does  emerge,  like  one  of  Aphrodite's  glisten 
ing  dolphins,  feels  blindly  for  the  blue-and-white 
bib,  misses  it,  seizes  the  skirts  of  his  tunic,  warned 
by  his  sisters'  shouts,  relinquishes  them  —  burrows 
into  the  doily  under  the  finger-bowl,  which  is  res 
cued  by  Our  Governess,  and  dashes  the  water 
from  his  eyes  and  hair,  smiling  adorably. 

But  Prima,  released  from  the  spell,  fixes  the 
company  with  a  definite  eye. 

"I  was  going  to  tell  you  my  paragraph,"  she 
says  firmly.  "I  got  a  gold  star  for  it.  It  was 
about  Washington.  I'll  recite  it  for  you  now,  if 
you  like." 

"That  will  be  very  nice,"  we  murmur,  and 
Prima  clears  her  throat.  Her  father,  her  grand- 


ONE     OF    OUR    LUNCHEONS     25 

father,  all  her  uncles  and  most  of  her  cousins  clear 
their  throats  with  precisely  that  ancestral  into 
nation. 

Our  Mother  never  ceases  to  marvel  at  these 
sign-manuals  of  heredity.  Is  it  an  identical  larynx, 
an  epiglottal  angle  fixed  in  the  mould  of  the  genera 
tions,  or  a  transmissible  tendency,  merely  ?  Like 
the  Hapsburg  jaw,  it  triumphs  over  Time.  Daugh 
ters  of  Heth  unnumbered  have  diluted,  not  to  say 
tainted,  the  pure  stream  of  Prima's  paternal  an 
cestry,  but  failed  to  invalidate  that  preparatory 
cough.  If  Tertius  should  marry  the  daughter  of 
a  Bedouin  chief,  or  lead  his  bride  from  some  igloo 
of  the  farthest  North,  his  sons  and  daughters 
would  doubtless  announce  their  impending  dis 
courses  to  a  waiting  world  with  that  same  warn 
ing  cough.  Our  Mother,  on  hearing  it,  is  thrown 
sometimes  into  a  muse,  and  beholds,  in  fatalistic 
fancy,  the  aboriginal  forefather  of  them  all,  clear 
ing  a  portentous  throat,  brandishing  with  his 
skin-draped  arm  the  stone  axe-head  of  his  vigorous 
period,  ere  it  crash  down  on  the  docile  skull  of  a 
prognathous  helpmate  enjoying  in  that  moment 
her  last  taste  of  conjugal  repartee. 

"Washington,"  says  Prima  (and  the  grand- 
paternal  and  the  great  grand-paternal  pulpits  rise, 


26  ON    OUR    HILL 

shadowy,  behind  her  blond  head;  their  texts  gleam 
from  her  calm  blue  eye),  "was  called  the  Father  of 
his  Country." 

"Oh,  we  all  know  that,"  Secunda  darts  in  flip 
pantly.  "  That's  no  news  to  anybody." 

"We  all  know  *  Little  Lamb,  who  made  thee,' 
too,"  Prima  returns  bitterly. 

"But  that's  pretty." 

"So  is  my  paragraph  about  Washington." 

"Not  to  me,"  says  Secunda  with  her  most  ex 
asperating  mixture  of  airiness  and  frankness. 

"It  is  to  me,"  Prima  states  firmly. 

"Oh,  well,  go  on,  then  —  and  get  it  over,"  echoes 
in  her  tone.  The  table  as  a  whole  feels  a  guilty 
sympathy  with  Secunda's  tone,  but  braces  itself 
politely. 

"Washington  was  called  the  Father  of  his 
Country,"  the  paragraphist  begins  again. 

"You  said  that  before,"  Tertius  observes  criti 
cally. 

He  is  now  engaged  in  washing  each  stubby  pink 
finger  with  meticulous  care.  Seen  foreshortened 
through  the  glass,  his  hands  are  more  cherubic 
than  ever,  plumper,  rosier,  more  like  shells  under 
water  in  Bermuda  .  .  . 

"Secunda,  dear,  can't  you  be  quiet  a  moment?" 


ONE     OF    OUR    LUNCHEONS     27 

begs  Our  Governess  wearily.  "We  shall  never  be 
done,  at  this  rate.  You  only  put  her  back." 

"But  she  did  say  it  before,  and  it  wasn't  me 
that  time  —  it  was  Tertius,"  Secunda  giggles. 
"Your  eyes  were  shut,  Miss  Paul." 

It  seems  dreadfully  ungrateful  to  mention  it, 
but  one's  thoughts  do  wander,  while  Prima  quotes 
her  own  or  others'  deathless  prose.  Not  that  she 
does  not  quote  correctly  —  far  from  it.  But  there 
is  a  certain  relentless  detail,  a  certain  —  how  shall 
I  say  ?  —  irrefutable,  inescapable  quality  in  her  dis 
course  that  kills  the  spontaneity  one  feels  should 
grace  an  informal  luncheon.  Then,  of  course,  ten 
is  a  terribly  accurate  age. 

"Washington  was  called - 

Secunda  sighs  profoundly.     Tertius  laughs. 

"Really,  dearest,"  Our  Mother  protests  feebly, 
"couldn't  you  begin  from  there,  and  go  on?  I 
mean  ...  we  all  know  that  first  part,  now •" 

"We  knew  it  long  before,"  Secunda  mutters. 

"That  will  do,  Secunda.  Prima  may  be  a  little 
tiresome,  but  you  are  extremely  rude.  You  would 
be  furious  if  she  interrupted  you  so.  I  don't  wish 
to  hear  you  speak  again.  And  take  your  hands 
out  of  your  finger-bowl  at  once.  Prima,  why  don't 
you  go  on  from  there?" 


28  ON    OUR    HILL 

"Because  it  wouldn't  be  my  paragraph,"  Prima 
explains  calmly.  "I  got  the  star  for  the  whole 
paragraph,  and  I  want  you  to  hear  it  that  way. 
A  paragraph  is  - 

"I  am  sufficiently  acquainted  with  the  mecha 
nism  of  the  paragraph,"  says  Our  Mother.  "Let's 
get  on.  And  please  nobody  interrupt." 

"Washington  was  called  the  Father  of  his 
Country,"  Prima  remarks  serenely.  "He  was  a 
very  good  man  and  fought  against  the  Indians. 
His  house  was  called  Mount  Vernon,  because  of 
the  way  it  was  built  ..." 

There  is  no  excuse  for  Our  Mother,  for  she 
knows  that  it  is  safer  to  interrupt  a  dumdum 
bullet  in  mid-flight  than  her  eldest  daughter.  At 
least,  the  bullet  does  not  go  back  and  begin  over 
again.  But  she  could  not  resist  Prima' s  last  sen 
tence,  and  so  she  rushed  to  her  doom. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  darling?"  she 
gasped. 

"What    I    say,"    Prima   returned    patiently - 
"because  of  the  way  it  was  built,  and 

"But  why  should  it  be  called  - 

"It  was  George  Washington's  house,"  the  para- 
graphist  explains  gently,  "and  it  was  called 
Mount  Vernon,  and  after  that  a  great  many  peo- 


ONE     OF    OUR    LUNCHEONS     29 

pie  built  their  houses  that  way,  so  as  to  have 
them  like  George  Washington's  house,  and  called 
them  Mount  Vernon,  so  that  now  houses  that 
are  built  that  way  are  called  Mount  Vernon,  so 
that  ..." 

It  seems  that  no  change  in  their  positions  can 


"His  house  was  called  Mount  Vernon" 

ever  occur,  that  they  must  sit  there,  bound  and 
stupefied,  so  long  as  Prima's  relentless  voice  flows 
evenly  on.  Secunda  has  long  since  liberated  her 
spirit  and  is  busily  forming  mathematical  combi 
nations  and  permutations  out  of  the  regular  scal 
lops  around  the  edge  of  her  doily.  Tertius  rolls 
his  bib  into  the  smallest  possible  cylinder,  pushes 
it,  damp  and  protesting,  into  his  white  napkin- 


30  ON    OUR    HILL 

ring  with  the  Old  English  "T"  on  it,  then  absent- 
mindedly  jerks  it  through  with  his  teeth,  con 
fronts  it,  surprised,  rerolls  it,  and  repeats  the  per 
formance  till  Our  Governess  nervously  seizes  it 
and  disposes  of  it  elsewhere. 

"And  so  that  is  why  I  say  that  it  was  called 
Mount  Vernon  because  of  the  way  it  was  built," 
concludes  Prima,  drawing  her  breath  with  good 
reason. 

"I  see,"  breathes  her  parent  meekly. 

"Now,  darling,  I'm  afraid  we  haven't  time  for 
any  more.  If  you  will  bring  me  home  the  para 
graph,  I'll  be  delighted  to  read  it." 

Our  Mother  rises,  and  as  they  struggle  out  of 
their  seats  (Tertius  sits  on  a  fat,  heavily  panelled 
edition  of  "Picturesque  America,"  Secunda  on  a 
middle-sized,  magnificently  tooled  Ridpath's  "His 
tory  of  the  United  States,  Volume  IV,"  and  Prima 
has  just  been  graduated  from  any  such  infantile 
underpinning)  her  first-born  plunges  around  her 
neck. 

"I  do  love  you!  You  are  the  sweetest  thing! 
I  adore  that  orange-colored  tie,"  she  breathes 
fervently. 

"And  I  love  you  too,  beloved,"  says  Our 
Mother.  Really,  Prima  is  a  darling.  She  can't 


ONE     OF     OUR    LUNCHEONS     31 

help  lecturing,  and  she  is  so  affectionate  and  de 
pendable. 

Secunda  is  a  heart-breaker,  of  course,  and  no 
body    was   ever   like   that  wonderful   boy  —  but 


Secunda  executes  the  most  perfect  pirouette 

there's  something  about  Prima.  .  .  .     "She's  as 
true  as  steel,  isn't  she?"  one's  friends  say. 

She  and  her  sister  each  twine  about  an  arm, 
but  Tertius  stands  stiffly  at  the  door  and  salutes 


32  ON    OUR    HILL 

as  the  ladies  pass.  He  looks  like  a  stray  Cupid 
disguised  as  a  Prussian  officer  of  the  day,  but 
fondly  imagines  himself  to  be  indistinguishable 
from  a  butler,  and  is  enthusiastically  confirmed  in 
his  opinion  by  all. 

"The  sweets!  The  sweets!"  cries  Secunda, 
and  executing  the  most  perfect  pirouette  imagina 
ble,  she  twirls  back  to  the  sideboard  and  drops 
like  a  fluttering  prima  ballerina  in  front  of  it. 

"What  a  dancer  she  would  make!"  murmurs 
Our  Governess. 

"It  is  rather  unfortunate  that  all  her  careers, 
as  prophesied  by  her  friends,  concern  themselves 
with  footlights,"  says  Our  Mother  coldly.  "Get 
up,  Secunda,  and  wralk  like  a  Christian." 

"Isn't  Pavlowa  a  Christian?"  Prima  inquires 
eagerly,  "or  does  she  believe  in  Allah?" 

"Perhaps  she  believes  in  Diana,"  says  Secunda. 
* '  Great  is  Diana  of  the  Ephesians  ! '  There's  only 
that  fruit-cake  here  and  Tertius's  old  chocolate 
Easter-egg  and  the  salad  things.  Oh  !  onion  salt ! 
Did  you  know  that  the  cows  ate  onion-grass, 
Muddy,  and  that's  why  the  milk  was  so  nasty 
when  that  gentleman  that  left  his  shaving-razor 
asked  for  a  glass  of  milk?" 

"The  sweets  are  in  that  cupboard  in  the  library, 


ONE    OF    OUR    LUNCHEONS    33 


"I'm  just  licking  it  to  see  if  it's  good  for  you" 

with  the  cigarettes,"  says  Our  Mother  briefly. 
Like  Mr.  Pater's  Mona  Lisa,  the  corners  of  her 
eyelids  are  a  little  weary. 

"I  pass  the  box!  I  like  the  boxes  gentlemen 
bring  better  than  the  boxes  ladies  bring  —  there's 
more  chocolate,"  Prima  remarks. 

"I  choose  ...  I  choose  ...  oh,  dear,  I  don't 


34  ON     OUR     HILL 

know  what  I  choose!  Nooger;  or  could  I  have 
two,  if  I  took  those  weeny  little  almonds  ?  They're 
more  healthy,  you  know,  Muddy  !" 

"You're  quite  healthy  enough,"  says  Our 
Mother  coldly.  "I  don't  know  that  I'd  risk  any 
more,  Prima,  darling!" 

"Save  that  gum-drop  for  me  !"  Secunda  shrieks. 
"Stop  it,  Tertius !  You  know  I  can't  eat  choco 
lates!" 

"Oh,  I'm  just  licking  it,  Secunda,  to  see  if  it's 
good  for  you,"  the  youth  replies  carelessly. 

"Then  I'll  have  to  have  a  chocolate!" 

Our  Governess  begins  a  homily,  but  Our  Mother 
waves  it  aside  impatiently. 

"Oh,  never  mind,  Miss  Paul,"  she  says.  "If 
Secunda  washes  to  have  a  nasty  fever-blister  on 
the  left-hand  corner  of  her  mouth  to-morrow,  let 
her  eat  the  chocolate.  Of  course,  she  looks  dis 
gusting,  and  certainly  7  shan't  kiss  her,  but  she's 
got  to  work  it  out  for  herself  —  she's  quite  clever 
enough." 

"I'll— I'll  take  the  gum-drop,  Tertius,"  says  Se 
cunda,  with  a  sigh,"only  please  don't  lick  it  again  !" 

"Must  we  sleep  till  three?"  Prima  asks  casu 
ally.  ("Save  that  silver  paper  for  me,  please, 
Miss  Paul;  I'm  making  a  crown.") 


ONE    OF    OUR    LUNCHEONS    35 

Prima  has  asked  this  question  at  1.55  p.  M.  for 
five  years,  every  day,  though  the  answer  has  never 


"  Good-by  !     Pleasant  dreams  ! " 

varied.  The  placid  persistence  of  the  inquiry 
speaks  volumes  as  to  the  ultimate  and  deserved 
success  of  her  ancestral  Puritans,  but  it  has  been 


36  ON    OUR    HILL 

known  to  awaken  in  Our  Mother's  breast  vague 
hints  as  to  the  hectic  relief  of  the  less  admirable 
period  of  the  Restoration  ! 

"Good  night,  my  dear,"  says  Our  Mother. 
"Good  night,  Secunda  —  please  don't  turn  somer 
saults  so  near  that  table;  it  was  your  great-grand 
mother's,  and  the  legs  are  thinner  than  yours." 

"Good  night,  my  heavenly  cherub,  my  pearl  of 
babies,  my  peach  of  Paradise !  —  Never  mind,  I 
don't  care  if  it  is  sticky !  Go  up  on  your  toes, 
now,  all  of  you  —  not  like  trick  elephants  !" 

"Will  you  be  here,  when  we  wake  up  ?" 

She  has  a  disconcerting  way,  Our  Mother,  of 
slipping  off  while  one  sleeps,  you  see. 

"Yes,  yes,  lambies,  I'll  be  here !" 

We  all  throw  kisses  madly  to  and  from  the 
landing;  it  is  like  the  departure  of  the  Mauretania. 

"Good-by  !  Good-by  !  Pleasant  dreams  !"  Ter- 
tius  calls,  confusedly  but  always  politely. 

Our  luncheon  is  over. 


WE    VISIT    THE    ZOO 


A  HYMN  TO  THE  ZOO 

BEHOLD  Dame  Nature,  toiling  through  the  years, 
Shaping  a  giant  toy-shop  for  my  Dears ! 
Up  through  primeval  slime  vast  lizards  creep, 
Grim  dinosaurs  to  thrill  their  busy  sleep. 

Doubtless  at  History's  dawn  that  swarming  Ark 

Was  saved  of  God  to  people  us  this  Park! 

And  Father  Noah  swam  the  mounting  seas, 

WTith  monkeys  snatched  from  Wrath,  my  Dears  to  please. 

For  them  the  painted  parrakeets  were  stained, 
For  them  the  raging  elephant  was  chained, 
And  cruel,  tawny  tigers  to  and  fro 
Must  glide  and  slink — for  Prima  loves  them  so. 

O,  wondrous  thought !    Economy  divine  ! 
Breathless  with  awe,  I  glimpse  the  great  design: 
That  cobras  for  my  boy  should  leave  the  Nile, 
And  bears  be  born,  to  win  Secunda's  smile ! 


WE   VISIT   THE   ZOO 

UNTIL  very  recently  Tertius  was  probably 
the  only  American  of  whom  it  could  truth 
fully  be  said  that  he  had  never  travelled  above  a 
mile  and  a  half  from  his  ancestral  property.  He 
was,  of  course,  only  four.  Still,  in  these  days  of 
motors  and  aeroplanes,  it  is,  one  feels,  a  statement 
worthy  of  record. 

They  were  accomplished,  those  early  journeys, 
in  a  donkey-cart.  The  donkey  was  driven  (one 
is  forced  to  employ  this  conventional  verb  because 
there  is  no  simple  word  which  describes  the  proc 
ess  of  sitting  in  a  cart  attached  to  a  donkey  and 
holding  the  reins)  by  Tertius  himself,  assisted  by 
his  nurse.  This  is  to  say  that  Tertius  held  the 
slack  of  the  reins  —  the  part  that  dribbles  down 
to  the  floor  of  the  cart,  and  the  nurse  held  the 
tight  part  —  the  part  that  stretches  to  the  bit. 
These  reins  the  nurse  grasped  in  the  manner  of 
the  lady  who  drives  the  red  chariot  in  the  final 
act  of  any  legally  conducted  circus  performance. 
In  fact,  Our  Nurse  would  have  been  a  useful 
model  for  any  of  those  ladies,  whose  demeanor 

41 


42  ON    OUR    HILL 

/ 

appears  trifling  and  casual,  indeed,  compared  to 
Helen's.  Stallions  from  the  Russian  steppes  driven 
four-in-hand  might  possibly  account  for  the 
strained  and  purposeful  expression  of  her  counte 
nance;  and  the  fact  that  Punk,  a  mouse-brown 
beast  of  incalculable  antiquity,  has  never  been 
known  to  exceed  his  characteristic  stroll  of  two 
miles  an  hour,  would  never  —  could  never  — 
occur  to  any  one  who  watched  her  face  on  these 
occasions. 

Secunda  and  Tertius  sat  on  either  side  of  her; 
Prima  occupied  the  other  side  of  the  basket  cart, 
offering  a  running  commentary  on  driving  as  a 
fine  art.  Queen's  Barry,  a  dignified  Great  Dane, 
brindled  gold  and  brown  like  a  tiger,  followed  the 
cart,  and  Alexandra,  his  mate,  followed  him. 
They  looked  like  the  Eliza-crossing-the-ice  part 
of  an  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  parade,  and  once  a 
small  boy  asked  Our  Nurse  what  time  did  the 
show  begin ! 

"  Country  people  don't  seem  to  have  very  much 
idea  of  things,  I've  noticed,"  says  Our  Nurse. 

"What  did  you  tell  the  boy?"  inquired  Our 
Mother  with  interest. 

"Oh,  I  just  said:  'This  donkey  has  always  lived 
on  a  private  place ! ' ' 


WE     VISIT    THE    ZOO  43 

In  the  winter,  when  Tertius  was  nearly  four, 
and  thought  nothing  of  tramping  three  miles,  we 
hitched  the  donkey  to  a  flexible  flyer  sled,  and 
Our  Mother  essayed  to  break  him  in  to  it.  Part 
of  the  time  she  sat  on  the  sled  and  part  of  the 
time  she  sat  in  the  road,  but  all  of  the  time  Tertius 
laughed.  Until  you  have  coasted  down  a  slight 
descent  into  the  back  of  a  surprised  donkey,  you 
are  in  no  position  to  appreciate  the  value  of  shafts 
as  compared  to  sled  ropes.  Over  and  over  again, 
on  her  way  through  life,  Our  Mother  has  discov 
ered  for  herself  the  real  inherent  causes  that 
underlie  the  most  common  conventions  of  life 
on  this  planet,  but  never  has  she  made  more 
definite,  more  decisive  discoveries  along  these 
lines  than  on  the  day  when  she  coasted  into 
Punk. 

When  she  had  fully  made  up  her  mind  that  the 
man  who  invented  shafts  was  more  than  justified 
in  his  invention,  Our  Mother  rolled  over  a  few 
times  in  the  deep  snow  by  the  side  of  the  country 
road,  wrapped  the  reins  firmly  around  her  wrist, 
got  up,  and  walked  beside  the  apparently  humble 
beast;  Prima  followed  her,  explaining  clearly  and 
almost  unnecessarily  just  why  the  thing  had  hap 
pened  that  had  happened;  Queen's  Barry  followed 


44  ON    OUR    HILL 

Prima;  Alexandra  followed  Queen's  Barry;  Se- 
cunda  followed  Alexandra,  or  rather  leaned  heavily 
on  her  neck,  in  a  spirited  imitation  of  an  Alpine 
traveller  being  rescued  by  a  St.  Bernard;  Tertius 
followed  Secunda,  dragging  a  small  sled  bumpily 
on  one  runner  by  one  rope,  and  a  gray  cat,  very 
cold,  followed  Tertius.  It  will  readily  be  per 
ceived  that  the  procession  required  some  time  to 
pass  a  given  point. 

Persons  in  motors  stopped,  peered  out  of  the 
little  window  at  the  back,  laughed,  rolled  on. 
Strange  men  on  express-carts  waved  their  hands 
and  called  out: 

"Give  us  a  lift,  won't  you?" 

Children  in  tight  limousines  frantically  besought 
their  guardians  to  let  them  out  to  join  the  expedi 
tion,  wherever  bound,  regardless  of  their  velvet 
coats  and  shiny  boots.  But  all  these  flashed  by 
like  magic-lantern  pictures,  and  were  gone,  while 
Our  Family  trudged  onward  and  onward  still, 
since  it  was  as  far  to  go  back  as  to  go  around.  It 
seemed  to  Our  Mother  that  she  had  walked  this 
walk  for  years  and  would  continue  to  walk  it  for 
eternities,  pushing  the  donkey  with  one  hand  and 
pulling  the  sled  with  the  other. 

But  those  old  days  are  over  now!     Tertius  is 


41 


WE     VISIT    THE    ZOO  47 

five,  and  going  to  the  Bronx  for  his  first  birthday 
treat  away  from  home.  Our  Nurse  is  gone,  Our 
Governess  has  come.  Tertius  boasts  laced  boots 
and  suits  never  worn  by  anybody  before  him,  and 
Secunda  is  supposed  to  be  able  to  do  without  her 
nap  for  once  and  not  be  snappish  and  feel  insults 
where  none  are  intended. 

Prima  has  been  twice  already  to  the  Zoo,  and 
prefers  going  in  the  train  to  going  by  motor. 
One  meets,  she  tells  us,  more  people. 

Behold  us,  now,  about  to  start !  Is  the  lunch- 
basket  in?  Yes.  Are  the  jerseys  in,  for  coming 
back  in  the  cool  of  the  day?  Yes  .  .  .  that  is, 
Prima's  and  Tertius's  are,  but  Secunda  was  using 
hers  for  an  East  Indian  turban  in  a  coronation 
scene  she  was  staging,  and  when  she  took  it  off  to 
enact  the  Prince  of  Wales  lifting  his  hat  to  the 
faithful  populace  on  leaving  the  Abbey,  it  fell  into 
an  adjacent  wheelbarrow  and  is  believed  (by  Ter 
tius,  who  always  believes  too  hastily  in  the  worst) 
to  have  been  fed  to  one  of  the  cows. 

"There,  Secunda,  what  did  I  tell  you?  I  said 
at  the  time:  "Be  careful  about  that  sweater  or 
you'll  lose  it.'  And  you  weren't  careful  —  you 


never  are." 


No  .  .  .  she  never  is,"  booms  Tertius.     "And 


48  ONOURHILL 

maybe  the  cow  will  be  sick  from  it,  too.  Maybe 
the  cow  will  die." 

"Oh,  be  still,  both  of  you!"  Secunda  cries  bit 
terly.  "What  if  you  did  say  so,  Prima?  Do  I 
have  to  listen?" 

"And  maybe  -     '  Tertius  resumes  portentously. 

"  Maybe  if  the  cow  dies  she  won't  go  to  heaven  ! " 
Secunda  mimics;  "maybe,  maybe,  maybe  !  You're 
a  silly  baby !" 

"Children,  children,"  Our  Mother  murmurs. 
("Is  my  bag  here?  Are  my  cigarettes?  This 
veil  doesn't  go  over  this  hat  —  get  me  another, 
somebody  .  .  .  have  you  all  two  handkerchiefs? 
Did  you  put  the  cork  in  the  thermos  bottle, 
Lena?") 

"Please  don't  talk  poetry  to  Tertius,  Secunda 
dear,  you  know  it  always  annoys  him  so,"  com 
plains  Our  Governess.  "Can't  you  really  think 
where  you  left  the  jersey?  Your  memory  is  so 
poor.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  my  memory's  all  right,  Miss  Paul,"  Se^ 
cunda  assures  her,  "only  sweaters  and  things  like 
that,  I  don't  always.  I'll  be  warm  enough.  Let's 
start." 

"Nonsense,  Secunda!  Go  up  and  get  your 
dancing-school  one." 


WE     VISIT    THE    ZOO  49 

"  Oh,  Mother,  that  was  given  down  to  Tertius ! 
Don't  you  remember?  The  buttonholes  over  my 
stomach  bursted 

"Then  get  Prima's  play  jersey " 

"I  don't  want  her  to  wear  my  things,"  Prima 
complains,  "she's  so  careless." 

"Prima  !     How  selfish  of  you  !" 

"I  can't  help  it.  I  don't  like  my  sweater  used 
for  a  turban,  nor  a  game-bag  for  poor  little  dead 
birds  to  be  put  into,  all  bleeding  - 

"Why,  you  silly,  they  were  not  real  birds  — 
they  were  only  pretend  birds!  They  couldn't 
hurt  your  old  sweater!" 

"I  don't  care.  I  don't  like  any  kind  of  birds 
bleeding  —  I  don't  like  the  idea.  Find  your  own 
sweater." 

"I  think  -  *  says  Our  Mother,  with  an  icy  im 
personality —  "I  think  if  you'll  excuse  me,  girls, 
I'll  step  out,  and  Clark  can  run  the  car  back  to 
the  garage.  Then  you  can  continue  this  discus 
sion  —  which  verges  more  and  more  on  the  aca 
demic  —  under  cover,  and  I'll  go  in  and  clear  out 
the  sewing-closet." 

There  is  a  dead  silence.  Subsequently  —  very 
subsequently  —  a  jersey  appears  from  somewhere; 
a  paper  of  salt  for  the  eggs  is  apologetically  in- 


50  ON    OUR    HILL 

serted  into  one  of  Our  Mother's  pockets;  the 
puppy  that  always  follows  the  car  is  hastily 
dragged  off,  yelping,  to  be  tied;  an  interviewer 
who  wishes  Our  Mother's  telephone  opinion  as  to 
the  ten  best  novels  with  which  to  be  cast  on  a 
desert  island,  is  gently  discouraged;  a  gentleman 
with  a  cow  to  buy  and  two  pigs  to  sell,  who  sud 
denly  starts  up  out  of  the  ground  from  nowhere 
is  with  some  difficulty  assured  that  neither  prop 
osition  meets  any  instant  need  of  the  establish^ 
ment;  a  knot  is  tied  in  the  elastic  under  Tertius's 
peach-blossom  chin  —  and  we  are  off. 

Exactly  why  Tertius  should  fall  into  a  musical 
mood  and  sing  "The  Son  of  God  goes  forth  to 
war"  all  the  way  to  Yonkers,  will  never  be  known. 
He  has  a  really  lovely  voice,  very  pure  and  full, 
and  when  he  is  alone  he  sings  a  great  deal.  As 
he  can  sing  (like  most  children)  only  when  he 
knows  the  words,  and  as  he  knows  about  a  quarter 
of  the  words  of  the  hymn  he  has  selected,  it  will 
be  quite  clear  to  you  that  his  musical  offering 
entails  a  certain  amount  of  repetition.  This  has 
no  terrors  for  Our  Mother,  who  has  been  known 
to  sing: 

"O  God,  our  help  in  ages  past, 
Our  hope  for  years  to  come/* 


WE     VISIT    THE    ZOO  51 

during  one  entire  morning;  but  it  affects  Secunda's 
more  delicate  nerves  after  the  first  ten  miles,  and 
Prima  began  arguing  against  it  only  two  villages 
away  from  home. 

"And  anyway,  nobody  sings  hymns  in  motors," 
she  concludes. 

"I  do,"  replies  Tertius  placidly,  and  continues 
in  a  hollow,  hooting  voice: 

'  They  met  the  tyrum's  brandy  steal, 
The  lion's  gory  mane " 

"Not  'gory'  mane,  'glory'  mane,"  Prima  cor 
rects. 

"Hoo  !  There's  where  you  re  wrong  !"  Secunda 
chuckles.  "It  is  'gory/  isn't  it,  Muddy?" 

"Certainly,"  Our  Mother  assures  her.  (It  is 
extraordinary  how  one  enjoys  finding  Prima  in 
the  wrong !  Probably  because  she  so  thoroughly 
enjoys  putting  others  there.) 

"It  means  that  the  lion's  mane  was  covered 
with  blood." 

:<  That's  why  I  never  sing  it  that  way,"  Prima 
returns  briskly. 

" Glory'  is  in  hymns  a  good  deal,  and  'glory 
mane'  is  much  prettier.  I  don't  like  blood." 

"Then  you  will  be  forced  to  omit  a  great  many 


52  ONOURHILL 

hymns  from  your  repertoire,"  suggests  Our 
Mother. 

Our  Governess  gasps. 

"Let's  begin  at  the  beginning  and  sing  it  all 
straight  through,"  Secunda  cries,  and,  heedless  of 
Prima's  obstinate,  "I  won't;  I  shall  sing,  'Rise, 
crowned  with  light,'"  the  two  begin. 

With  set  jaw  and  a  firmly  concentrated  eye 
(for  a  high  degree  of  concentration  is  required  in 
order  to  sing  one  hymn  correctly,  listening  care 
fully  at  the  same  time  for  all  the  probable  inac 
curacies  of  a  second  hymn  which  is  being  bellowed 
angrily  into  your  ear  by  your  brother  and  sister) 
Prima  lifts  her  voice  —  a  voice  of  no  inconsider 
able  force,  by  the  way,  and  we  dash  through  the 
peaceful  autumn  country,  startling  the  inhabi 
tants  in  our  flight. 

"A  noble  army,  men  and  boys, 
The  matron  and  the  maid," 

shout  Tertius  and  his  choir  (Secunda  is  enacting 
the  part  of  crucifer  in  a  vested  processional,  and 
gazes  reverentially  at  Our  Governess's  umbrella, 
held  firmly  before  her;  one  feels  instinctively  that 
she  is  dressed  in  a  red  cassock,  with  a  white  cotta, 
trimmed  with  openwork  and  lace,  above  it). 


WE     VISIT    THE    ZOO  53 

"Demanding  life,  impatient  for  the  skies" 

shrills  Prima,  to  the  wailing  majesty  of  the  Rus 
sian  national  anthem. 

This  air  inevitably  sends  Our  Mother  into  a 
state  of  vague,  melancholy  ecstasy,  so  that  she 


•  ~  we 


A  noble  army,  men  and  boys,"  shout  Tertius  and  his  choir 


becomes  as  oblivious  of  the  surrounding  facts  of 
life  as  any  of  her  children.  Lost,  even  as  Secunda, 
in  her  sacerdotal  vision,  Our  Mother  becomes  the 
Czar  of  all  the  Russias,  bareheaded  on  her  mo 
tionless  steed,  while  armies  upon  armies  sweep  by 
from  the  windy  steppes,  chanting  that  greatest  of 
anthems.  If  Our  Mother  and  Secunda  were  to 
die  in  that  moment  it  is  quite  certain  that  the 
souls  of  a  choir-boy  and  an  Emperor  would  ascend 


54  ON    OUR    HILL 

to  their  God  from  that  pandemonium  in  an  auto 
mobile  ! 

"Oh!  Oh!  Children!  Stop  it!"  Our  Gov 
erness  has  succumbed  and  begins  to  shake  Ter- 
tius  violently,  out  of  whose  opened  lips  sounds 
pour  like  water  from  a  garden-hose. 

"How  can  you  stand  it?" 

She  stares  wide-eyed  at  Our  Mother,  who  blinks 
and  sighs  deeply.  (The  armies  melt  and  the  roar 
of  their  drums  is  only  the  noise  of  the  motor 
going  into  second  speed  for  a  nasty  hill  just  out 
of  Pelham.) 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind,  so  long  as  Secunda  keeps 
on  the  key,"  says  Our  Mother  in  a  matter-of-fact 
tone.  "However,  if  it  annoys  you.  .  .  .  That's 
enough  now,  children;  stop,  Prima." 

Instant  peace  descends. 

"I  certainly  never  'ave  seen  children  like  them," 
murmurs  Our  Chauffeur. 

"There's  no  doubt  you  were  intended  to  be  the 
mother  of  a  family,"  breathes  Our  Governess. 
"You  don't  seem  to  have  any  nerves,  do  you?" 

"Not  for  hymns,"  Our  Mother  explains.  "I 
don't  see  any  objection  to  noise  in  the  open  air." 

"But  two  different  hymns  at  the  same  time," 
pleads  Our  Governess. 


WE    VISIT    THE    ZOO  55 

"Hoo!  How  do  you  suppose  God  feels  on 
Sundays,  then?"  Secunda  queries  scornfully. 

"Quite  so,"  Our  Mother  adds. 

"But  you  forget  that  He  is  a  good  way  off," 
Prima  begins  weightily.  .  .  . 

"I  see  Bronx  Park!  I  see  Bronx  Park!"  Ter- 
tius  calls.  "Monkeys  first!" 

"No,  lions  first!" 

"You  know  perfectly  well  we  go  through  the 
birds.  Don't  be  silly!" 

"And  don't  forget  about  feeding-time,  will  you, 
Mother  ?  I  never  saw  a  tiger  eat  in  my  life  yet ! " 

"Will  they  eat  natives?"  Tertius  inquires  hum 
bly. 

"Oh,  you  silly!  There  aren't  any  natives  in 
Bronx  Park.  They're  in  Australia.  There  can't 
be  natives  here,  can  there,  Mother?" 

"Certainly  there  can,"  says  Our  Mother  hastily 
—  too  hastily.  "Any  one  born  in  the  Bronx 
would  be  a  native  of  it." 

"O-o-h!  Then  would  he  be  black?"  asks  Se 
cunda  doubtfully. 

"Of  course.  Natives  are  black.  We  all  know 
that,"  says  Tertius  stodgily. 

"Not  at  all.  Of  course  he  wouldn't  be  black. 
That  is,"  adds  Our  Mother  honestly  —  too  hon- 


56  ONOURHILL 

estly  --" unless  he  was  going  to  be  black,  any 
way.  It's  being  born  there  would  make  him  a 
native,  you  see." 

"Goodness!"  Secunda  marvels,  "then  Pd  have 
been  one  if  I'd  been  born  here?  I'm  very  glad 
I  wasn't  —  aren't  you,  Tertius?  Wouldn't  you 
hate  to  have  had  that  horrid  kinky  hair?" 

"You  don't  understand  what  Mother  means, 
Kiddie,"  Our  Governess  begins,  but  Tertius  shakes 
his  head  at  her. 

"I  understand  a  native,  Miss  Paul  —  you  told 
me  about  them,"  he  chides  her  gently,  "and  now 
I  know  they  are  born  up  here,  too.  I  suppose 
they  have  them  born  for  the  tigers?" 

"There's  no  use,  Miss  Paul  —  we'll  never  get  out 
of  this,"  says  Our  Mother.  "It'll  only  get  worse 
and  worse.  If  I  were  you  I'd  let  it  go  for  to-day. 
.  .  .  There's  the  lion-house,  children."  We  are 
in  the  Zoo. 

We  roll  up  before  the  beautiful  big  stone  steps, 
we  bounce  out,  we  emerge  from  our  coats.  Clark 
and  the  lunch-basket  will  be  awaiting  us  at  half 
past  twelve,  and  there  is  an  hour  and  a  half  clear, 
for  the  birds,  lions,  and  monkeys. 

The  great  question,  of  course,  is,  What  will  Ter 
tius  say?  How  will  he  bear  himself  in  the  pres- 


WE     VISIT    THE     ZOO  57 

ence  of  all  these  wonders?  Remember  he  has 
never,  for  all  practical  purposes  of  language,  left 
his  home.  If  you  had  never  beheld  any  fowls  of 
the  air  beyond  the  inhabitants  of  your  ancestral 
poultry-yard,  the  family  canary,  and  the  robin, 
sparrow,  and  crow,  in  the  varieties  most  common 
to  your  native  land,  what  would  be  your  demeanor 
in  the  presence  of  a  glass  cathedral  full  of  painted, 
twittering  feathered  people,  any  one  of  whom 
(have  you  observed  that  nobody  who  lives  with 
children  calls  an  animal  "which"?),  any  one  of 
whom,  I  repeat  firmly,  if  encountered  upon  your 
own  door-step,  would  send  you  into  convulsions  of 
admiration  ? 

But  it  is  doubtful  if  anybody  but  Lord  Byron 
habitually  apostrophized  nature.  If  the  rest  of  us 
were  possessed,  like  Tertius,  of  the  disposition  of 
an  angel,  the  beauty  of  a  Greuze,  the  charm  of  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  and  the  savoir-faire  of  Talleyrand, 
we  should  probably  confront  the  solar  system  very 
much  as  he  confronts  the  impossibly  tinted  ob 
jects  that  now  flutter  before  his  calm  vision. 

He  stands  before  a  spray  of  soft  sepia  bubbles 
of  feather,  pressed  against  each  other  on  a  tipping, 
swaying  twig.  They  are  precisely  like  a  decora 
tion  on  a  Japanese  screen.  Everybody  else  rushes 


58 


ON    OUR    HILL 


from  Mexican  hornbills,  crude,  Futurist  crea 
tures,  to  absinthe-tinted  love-birds;  from  vast, 
beaked  nightmares  behind  strong  bars,  to  rain 
bow-stained  mites  that  dart  like  flames  behind  the 

finest  wire  netting.  They 
cry,  "Oh,  Mother,  see 
here!"  and  "Oh,  Miss 
Paul,  look  at  that!"  and 
"  Oh,  I  wish  we  had  those  ! " 
But  Tertius  gazes  dream 
ily,  contentedly,  at  the 
fluffy  brown  bough  of  cud 
dling  mites  before  him. 

"Do  you  like  them  es 
pecially,  darling?"  asks 
Our  Mother. 

"I  like  all  of  'em  'spe 
cially,"  he  answers,  "don't 
you?" 

"Then  why  don't  you 
hurry  and  see  them,  silly  ?  " 
Secunda  flings  at  him,  rush 
ing  past.  "We  can't  stay 
here  all  day.  Go  and  look 

Tertius  gazes  dreamily,  content-      at  that  big  One it's  like  the 

edly,  at  the  fluffy  brown  bough       _^      ,      .      <   .  * .       ,          *  , , , 

of  cuddling  mites  Dodo  in    Alice  -  -  hurry  ! 


WE     VISIT    THE    ZOO  59 

"All  right,"  he  says  politely.     "I  will.     Which 
are  your  favorites,  Mother?     I  think  these  are 


mine." 


"I  love  anything  best  that  you  love  best,  an 
gel  treasure,"  the  weak-minded  woman  replies. 
"Have  you  anything  for  me?" 

'Yes.     A  kiss,"  says  Tertius,  and  proves  it. 

"Why,  Tertius,  the  birds  are  nothing  —  noth 
ing!"  Prima  warns  him.  "Wait  till  you  see  the 
sea-lions.  Wait  till  you  see  the  polar  bear !  Wait 
till  you  see  all  the  - 

"I  am  waiting,"  he  replies  mildly.  "Don't  you 
see  me  waiting?" 

"Oh,  you  are  too  wonderful !"  cries  Our  Mother. 
"Would  it  be  too  much  to  ask.  .  .  ." 

"I  have  one  all  ready  for  you,"  he  assures  her 
with  a  kind  smile. 

You  probably  know  about  the  lions?  Their 
heads  are  carved  in  stone  at  all  the  corners  of  their 
house,  and  they  live  in  spacious  caves,  with  little 
retiring-rooms  and  alcoves  made  of  rock,  and 
beautiful  sunny  verandas,  where  they  lie  when  the 
season  permits.  Their  dwellings  are  many  times 
cleaner  and  fresher  than  those  of  the  greater  part 
of  their  observers  can  possibly  be,  and  food  and 
drink  are  served  spotlessly  and  regularly  to  them 


60  ON    OUR    HILL 

by  respectful  attendants.  Around  their  walls  run 
lovely  painted  friezes,  representing  in  the  lion's 
drawing-room,  for  instance,  palm-trees,  and  pyra 
mids,  and  scenes  like  the  back-drop  in  "A'ida." 
It  is  doubtless  a  great  trial  to  them  to  entertain, 
even  so  slightly  as  they  feel  themselves  obliged 
to,  the  vulgar,  huddled  crowds  of  citizens  who 
press  about  them,  shrill-voiced,  unwashed,  un- 
leisured,  even  in  their  hours  of  relaxation. 

To  look  at  Akbar  as  he  lies  dreaming,  those 
paws  that  could  crush  your  ribs  into  a  bleeding 
mass  folded  lightly  as  thistledown  before  him,  is 
to  be  ashamed  of  your  silly,  tense  muscles,  your 
bothered,  scurrying  mind.  His  great  mane,  dense 
to  his  waist,  shades  into  ruddy  brown,  into  leaf- 
brown,  into  the  delicate  warm  fawn  of  his  smooth 
body.  His  profile,  the  utter  perfection  of  wisdom 
and  pride,  makes  an  humble,  stupid  thing  of  a 
Greek  god.  (It  took  more  than  a  god  to  frighten 
Hercules  when  he  wore  a  lion's  skin !)  His  eyes, 
brown-gold,  like  the  sun  striking  through  a  clear 
brook,  are  brave,  like  a  child's,  but  baffled,  as  a 
King's  eyes  must  always  be.  Because,  what  is 
the  use  of  being  a  King  —  even  the  King  of  Beasts  ? 
The  poorest  little  squirrel  can  run  about  where  he 
likes,  and  if  he  starves  in  the  winter  or  the  cat 


WE     VISIT    THE    ZOO  61 

catches  him  in  the  summer,  at  least  he  ran  free 
while  he  lived.  But  a  King  must  belong  to  the 
people  who  stare  at  him. 

"Look  at  him,  Muddy  —  make  him  look  at 
you!"  Prima  begs. 

;<They  don't  never  look  at  you  —  them  cats: 
you  can't  make  'em,"  a  big,  slouching  boy  volun 
teers. 

But  Our  Mother  can  make  them.  Nearly  al 
ways,  that  is. 

"Akbar!"  she  calls  gently. 

He  twitches  his  nose,  but  his  topaz  eyes  never 
shift.  "Akbar  !  Akbar,  darling  ! " 

The  muscles  below  his  ribs  quiver  under  his 
smooth  golden  skin,  but  he  will  not  move  his  eyes. 

"Akbar,  dear,  you  must!  Look  at  Mother!" 
she  begs,  and  he  shifts  his  eyeballs  for  the  fraction 
of  a  second,  and  now  he  cannot  take  them  away 
from  hers  any  more. 

Straight  at  each  other  they  stare,  and  he  can 
not  look  at  anything  but  her.  .  .  .  But  it  is  only 
a  woman's  victory,  at  best,  for  something  in  his 
eyes  sees  her  —  and  goes  on  again,  and  there  is 
something  of  him  that  she  can  never  get.  He 
sees  her  and  yet  he  overlooks  her,  and  she  has 
mastered  what  she  cannot  understand. 


62  ON     OUR    HILL 

Suddenly  his  gaze  slips  off  from  hers,  and  he 
rises,  in  one  liquid,  flexible  motion,  and  walks 
hastily  into  his  inner  cave. 

"What  d'you  know  about  that?"  says  the 
slouching  boy.  "She  made  him  mad  !" 

Once  Our  Mother  did  this  to  a  lady  puma, 
whose  pupils  dilated  more  and  more,  till  her  eye 
brows  met  and  her  lips  flew  apart,  and  she  snarled 
and  leaped !  Nobody  who  saw  that  look  of  un 
quenchable  hate  will  ever  forget  it.  And  though 
people  who  know  us  say  that  if  any  one  should 
call  us  on  the  telephone  and  tell  us  that  he  hap- 
.petied  to  have  an  extra  hippopotamus  on  hand,  in 
case  we  should  care  for  it,  since  no  one  else  seemed 
to  need  it  —  though,  I  repeat,  these  people  are 
certain  that  Our  Mother,  in  these  circumstances, 
would  reply,  "Why,  how  perfectly  delightful! 
Send  it  straight  out!"  -yet  let  no  one  take  ad 
vantage  of  this  impression  to  suggest  Our  Moth 
er's  adding  a  lady  puma  to  the  home  circle ! 

We  now  approach  the  monkeys,  and  Tertius, 
who  had  held  tightly  to  any  friendly  hand  that 
offered,  strides  along  alone,  and  breathes  more 
freely. 

Although  almost  any  position  one  chooses  to 
occupy  in  the  building  devoted,  according  to  the 


WE     VISIT    THE    ZOO  63 

catalogue,  to  Primates,  can  be  made  instructive 
and  interesting,  few  figures  stand  out  so  clearly  in 
Our  Mother's  mind  as  that  of  the  Black-Faced 
Chimpanzee.  Not  only  is  he  exceptionally  large 
and  powerful  (qualities  certain  of  winning  her 
regard),  not  only  do  his  deep-set,  burning  eyes 
and  whole  general  facial  contour  give  him  an  in 
teresting  resemblance  to  some  great  light  of  the 
modern  Celtic  drama  movement;  not  only  does 
he  open  his  lips  to  speak,  lean  forward,  catch  your 
passionately  interested  eye  —  and  suddenly  shake 
his  head  and  resume  his  brooding  silence;  but 
there  is  his  perfectly  fascinating  manner  of  catch 
ing  hold  with  one  powerful  hand  of  the  strong 
rope  depending  from  the  roof  of  his  cage,  dashing 
hurriedly  through  space  by  means  of  it  —  with 
precisely  the  air  of  a  commuter  just  making  his 
train  —  and,  dropping  quietly  to  the  floor,  settling 
down  in  a  corner  and  gazing  off  into  space;  as 
though  an  Indian  Mahatma  should  take  the  Em 
pire  State  Express  on  an  impulse,  and  then  drop 
off  in  a  vacant  lot  to  meditate  before  he  had 
reached  Troy. 

However,  it  is  before  the  cage  of  the  White- 
Handed  Gibbon  that  the  success  of  the  day  is 
achieved.  This  adroit  beast,  who  has,  previous 


64  ON     OUR     HILL 

to  our  arrival,  been  occupied  with  trivial  acrobatic 
feats,  capable  of  performance  by  any  Primate, 
casts  a  quick  glance  at  us,  in  line  before  him, 
springs  to  one  end  of  a  firm  horizontal  bar  about 
fifteen  feet  in  length,  and,  grasping  it  in  one  of  his 
white  hands  (except  for  these,  he  is  merely  an  or 
dinary,  slightly -more-than-middle-sized  Primate) , 
he  glides  like  a  shooting-star  across  it.  Just  at 
the  end  he  shifts  his  grasp  with  such  incredible 
swiftness  that  one  can  only  infer  that  he  has  done 
so,  and  slides  in  the  opposite  direction.  Again 
the  lightning  shift  of  muscles,  again  the  skimming 
flight.  His  eyes  never  leave  the  admiring  eyes  of 
his  audience;  on  his  long,  intelligent  face  is  carved 
a  set  smile,  changeless,  constant,  fascinating. 

After  seven  of  these  manoeuvres  he  drops  to 
his  feet  and  stands,  panting  slightly,  like  a  slack- 
wire  artist  after  a  grand  coup.  Secunda  bursts 
into  spontaneous  applause,  and  Prima  and  Tertius 
join  her.  After  a  moment  the  other  children 
about  the  cage  join  in,  timidly  at  first,  then  with 
increasing  vigor;  everybody  in  the  room  laughs 
and  looks.  It  is  beyond  a  doubt  the  day  of  the 
White-Handed  Gibbon.  But  what  is  this  ?  The 
creature  is  embarrassed  !  He  turns  his  head  from 
side  to  side:  one  might  say  that  he  blushed.  He 


WE     VISIT    THE    ZOO  65 

glances  restlessly  at  the  audience  —  "What  can  I 
do  for  them?"  plainly  passes  through  his  mind. 
His  lips  part.  "Unaccustomed  as  I  am  to  public 


His  eyes  never  leave  the  admiring  eyes  of  his  audience 

speaking  -  The  phrase  almost  rings  through 
the  air ! 

"  Good  heavens !  Did  no  one  ever  applaud 
him  before?"  Our  Mother  demands,  horrified. 

"Not  since  I  been  here,  lady,"  an  ancient 
keeper  assures  her  solemnly.  "He's  awkward 
like,  I  guess." 


66  ON     OUR    HILL 

Suddenly  it  comes  to  him: 

"They  want  it  again!" 

He  leaps  to  his  bar  and  twists  his  wrist  so 
quickly  that  the  movement  simply  is  not,  cannot 
be,  seen.  Never  did  the  quickness  of  the  hand  so 
deceive  the  eye.  Seventeen,  eighteen,  nineteen 
...  he  moves  like  a  living  piston-rod.  Twenty- 
six,  twenty-seven.  ... 

"When  is  a  Gibbon  not  a  Gibbon?  When  he 
refuses  to  Decline  and  Fall,"  murmurs  Our 
Mother.  "Stop  him,  somebody:  it's  awful!" 

Tertius  takes  this  merely  hysterical  appeal  very 
seriously.  Advancing  close  to  the  cage,  he  raises 
his  short  arm. 

"  Gibbon  .  .  .  stop ! "  he  says  firmly.  And  the 
intelligent  Primate,  now  on  his  thirty-fourth  lap, 
ceases  abruptly,  and  drops  to  the  ground. 

"A  remarkable  performance!"  says  a  plump 
old  gentleman  in  a  white  waistcoat,  bowing  po 
litely  to  Tertius,  the  Gibbon,  and  Our  Mother,  as 
if  they  were  a  troupe  of  acrobats. 

We  have  but  five  minutes  more  before  lunch 
eon.  These,  by  common  consent,  are  devoted  to 
the  mandril  (you  will  recall  him  as  the  animal 
who  first  smelled  of  a  rainbow  and  then  sat  down 
on  it  so  hard  that  it  came  off  on  him)  and  his 


WE     VISIT    THE    ZOO  67 

cousin  who  so  strongly  resembles  the  late  King 
of  Belgium.  If  any  officer  of  his  guard  should 
ever  chance  to  encounter  this  mandril,  I  am  sure 
that  the  astonished  Primate  would  receive  an 
involuntary  military  salute.  Past  the  baboons, 
that  look  like  gray  French  poodles  dressed  to  imi 
tate  monkeys,  past  the  reptiles,  where  every  one 
but  Our  Mother  takes  a  hasty  look  (she  has  in 
herited  the  primal  curse  and  the  terror,  Our 
Mother,  and  leaps  away  from  a  coiled  garden 
hose),  we  file  along  to  the  big  pavilion  where  the 
faithful  Clark  waits  with  the  big  basket.  There 
are  ham  sandwiches  and  beef  sandwiches  and  jam 
sandwiches  and  sandwiches  of  orange  marmalade. 
There  are  hard-boiled  eggs  and  peaches  and  frosted 
cakes  and  sticks  of  peppermint  and  wintergreen 
and  cinnamon  candy.  There  is  a  thermos  bottle 
of  lemonade,  with  nickel  cups  that  disjoint  and 
fall  out  of  themselves,  and  a  kind-hearted  manage 
ment  has  provided  cups  of  alleged  tea  for  Our 
Mother. 

Each  person  has  a  colored  paper  napkin  under 
his  food  and  one  for  his  lap.  We  waste  little 
time  in  perfunctory  conversation;  beyond  appor 
tioning  the  sandwiches,  and  worrying  over  the 
fate  that  gives  Tertius  all  the  mustard  ones,  we 


68  ON     OUR     HILL 

devote  ourselves  almost  exclusively  to  eating. 
Every  one  eats  a  great  deal,  but  there  is  still  a 
pasteboard  plateful  left  over,  and  Our  Mother 
curses  the  New  England  soul  which  will  force 
her  to  carry  this  plate  about  till  she  can  find  some 


The  bears  depart  to  the  various  corners  of  their  den 

one  to  eat  its  contents.  We  tidy  the  table,  dis 
pose  of  the  crusts  and  papers,  endeavor  in  vain 
to  press  the  pasteboard  plateful  upon  a  tableful 
of  Italian  feasters,  and  start  off  for  the  bears. 

These,  by  a  miracle  of  luck,  are  being  fed,  and 
ours  is  the  felicity  of  watching  a  brown  and  hairy 
colossus  rear  himself  to  his  nine  feet,  and  dexter 
ously  catch  in  his  mouth  the  fish  the  attendant 
throws  him  from  a  pail.  Loaf  after  loaf  after  loaf 


WE     VISIT    THE    ZOO  69 

the  attendant  tosses  over  the  fence,  and  gravely 
the  bears  select  each  his  share  and  depart  to  the 
various  corners  of  their  den.  One  little  fellow 
prefers  his  moist,  and  to  him  belong  all  those  that 
fall  into  the  pool. 

Tertius  is  moved  to  sing,  "Diddle  diddle  dump- 


The  most  truly  humorous  objects  on 
Manhattan  Island 

ling,  my  son  John,"  to  them,  to  Prima's  embar 
rassment;  but  nobody  else,  the  bears  included, 
seems  to  object,  and  we  pass  on  to  the  sea-lions 
and  penguins,  perhaps  Our  Mother's  favorites. 

There  are  nine  penguins,  and  they  are  without 
doubt  the  nine  most  truly  humorous  objects  on 
Manhattan  Island,  which  is  saying  a  great  deal 
Whether  they  are  slipping  fussily  down  the  rocks, 
like  fat  dowagers  at  a  picnic,  or  walking  pom 
pously  in  a  line  (to  get  nowhere  at  all) ,  like  absurd 


70  ONOURHILL 

delegates  to  something  or  other,  or  staring  stu 
pidly  at  the  sea-lions,  as  though  they  had  never 
seen  them  before  (though  they  always  live  with 
them),  the  penguins  easily  surpass,  for  pure  quali 
ties  of  fascination,  any  creature  Our  Mother  has 
ever  seen. 

"Do  they  cost  much,  I  wonder?"  she  medi 
tates,  and  tries  to  calculate  the  chances  of  life  to 
be  hoped  for  by  any  penguin  who  should  live  on 
a  country  place  with  three  Great  Dane  puppies. 

"And  a  sea-lion  for  me !"  cries  Secunda  eagerly. 
"A  barking  one,  Muddy!" 

Two  sea-lions  live  in  this  pool,  and  all  day  (per 
haps  all  night,  too)  they  flash  and  dart  and  shim 
mer  through  the  water.  They  do  not  practise 
what  we  call  swimming:  they  set  their  shoulder  to 
a  wave  and  are  driven,  like  an  arrow  from  a  drawn 
bow,  by  some  uncoiling  inner  spring.  They  are 
motion's  self --an  almost  abstract  speed.  Pure 
joy  in  the  exercise  of  an  absolute  technic  keeps 
them  never  quiet;  the  sensation,  so  exquisitely 
effortless,  must  be  a  continual  temptation  to  keep 
on;  as  they  shoot  under  and  emerge  and  wriggle 
and  blow,  they  shout  and  bark  without  ceasing, 
because  they  are  so  happy  and  agile,  and  accom 
plish  so  utterly  what  they  feel  moved  to  do. 


WE    VISIT    THE    ZOO  71 

"What  animal  would  you  rather  be  of  them 
all?"  Secunda  asks  dreamily. 

"A  sea-lion,"  answers  Our  Mother  instantly, 
and,  "So  would  I,"  says  Tertius. 

One  enraptured  drink  of  ginger  ale  all  round, 
then  a  toppling,  swaying  five  minutes  on  the  ele 
phant.  The  elephant-driver,  when  almost  tear 
fully  implored  by  Our  Mother  to  eat  the  rest  of 
the  sandwiches  ("It  is  all  home-made  bread,"  she 
wailed,  "and  I  cannot  waste  it!"),  at  last  con 
sented. 

"  Oh,  well,  I'll  take  a  chance ! "  said  he.  "  Come 
on,  George !" 

Then  tickets  at  ten  cents  each  are  purchased, 
and  we  patter  down  the  steps,  quicker  and  quicker 
now,  for  the  time  is  short,  and  take,  one  at  a  time, 
a  walk  upon  the  fat  pony,  whose  name  is  Dot. 

A  hasty  peep  at  some  conies  and  rabbits  who 
live  down  a  street  of  animals  leading  to  a  window, 
from  which  emerge  six  or  seven  feet  of  giraffe;  a 
surprised  view  of  some  extra  birds,  pelicans,  flop 
ping  about  a  pool,  absurd  demoiselle  cranes  walk 
ing  like  ballet  girls,  an  angry  ostrich  —  and  we  are 
at  the  big  steps  on  the  stroke  of  four,  as  we 
planned  to  be. 

On  the  top  step  Secunda  pauses. 


72  ON    OUR    HILL 

"This  is  those  cranes!"  she  announces.  She 
lowers  her  eyelids,  extends  one  foot  straight  in 
front  of  her,  assumes  a  silly  smile,  and  prances 
along.  It  is  amazing. 

"Look !"  says  a  woman  below,  "how  that  child 
looks  like  a  bird  !" 

"She  looks  like  a  crane,  doesn't  she?"  a  man's 
voice  answers. 

"Do  you  suppose  she  intends  to?" 

Secunda  giggles. 

"What  do  they  suppose  I  intend  to  look  like  - 
a  rhinoceros?"  she  mutters. 

We  sit  very  quiet  in  the  car. 

"Will  you  drive?"  asks  Our  Chauffeur,  and 
Our  Mother  answers:  "When  we  get  through  this 
traffic." 

She  slides  under  the  wheel  presently,  and  from 
then  on,  everything  is  subdued.  A  long,  monoto 
nous  game,  in  which  every  cat  counts  three,  every 
dog  two,  and  every  child  one,  is  played  for  count 
less  miles  behind  her.  Sharp  cries  of: 

"Eighty-two!" 

"Sixty-six,  sixty-seven,  sixty-eight!" 

"Was  I  forty,  Miss  Paul?"  punctuates  the  gab 
bling  murmur.  Even  Tertius,  disgusted  at  miss 
ing  four  children  from  his  total,  and  raising  a  de- 


WE     VISIT    THE     ZOO  73 

fiant  shout  of  " Three  Blind  Mice,"  fails  to  create 
an  enduring  diversion.  When  Secunda  wearies, 
and  falls  into  an  impersonation  of  Rebecca  of 
York  about  to  throw  herself  from  the  tower,  Prima 
continues  the  game  alone,  playing  one  side  of  the 
road  against  another,  until  we  swing  into  our  own 
lane,  and  Our  Mother,  with  a  wail  of  despair, 
realizes  that  she  has  forgotten  to  get  a  start  for 
the  hill,  and  must  change  her  gear  sooner  than 
the  engine  likes. 

"Now  she'll  get  too  hot!"  Our  Mother  moans. 

"I  expect  she  will,"  says  the  chauffeur  coldly. 

We  reach  the  top.     We  get  out  stiffly. 

"Which  animal  did  you  like  the  best  —  the 
very  best  —  of  all,  precious  darling  ?  "  Our  Mother 
asks. 

Tertius  considers.  He  considers  with  great 
care  and  impartiality. 

"Come,  hurry,  dear,"  says  Miss  Paul. 

"I  liked  ...  I  liked  .  .  .  I'll  tell  you.  I  liked 
the  rabbits!"  he  says. 

For  this  we  have  scoured  the  fauna  of  the 
Orient!  This  is  the  child  for  whom  Primates 
labored  and  bears  from  the  Caucasus  ate  fish 
alive ! 

"Rabbits!"  cries  Secunda. 


74  ON    OUR    HILL 

"Rabbits!"  Prima  chides. 

"Well,  really,  Kiddie,  it  was  hardly  worth  while 
taking  you!"  says  Our  Governess  reproachfully. 
"Another  year  you  can't  expect  Mother  to 
bother." 

His  chin  shakes  a  little.  He  lifts  those  great, 
wide  eyes  to  hers: 

"Can't  I?  Won't  you?  "he  asks.  "You  know 
I  liked  those  brown  little  birds,  too  —  and  .  .  . 
and  one  snake,  didn't  I,  'Cunda?  I  told  you 
that  snake  —  don't  you  remember?" 

Our  Mother  lifts  him,  fifty-six  pounds  of  him, 
and  carries  him  up  the  stairs. 

"I  will  take  you  to  see  the  rabbits  every  year, 
beloved,"  she  says,  "if  you  will  only  kiss  me!" 

"I'll  always  do  that,"  he  promises  —  "always. 
I'll  do  it  without  rabbits!" 

And  she  believes  he  will. 


THE  ROYAL  ROAD  TO 
LEARNING 


THE  VICARIOUS  ATONEMENT 

HOW  has  my  heart  with  humility  burned, 
When  I  remember  how  little  I've  learned ! 
How  many  dollars  for  how  many  days, 
How  many  men  earned  in  how  many  ways? 
Do  I  subtract  it  or  do  I  divide? 
How  many  tears  have  I  shamefully  cried  .  .  . 
Now  comes  the  dawn  of  a  wonderful  day — 
Prima  knows  how,  and  she'll  show  me  the  way ! 

Maine  is  plum-colored,  Nevada  is  pink. 
Further  than  that  I  have  never  dared  think. 
Europe  and  Asia  are  not  the  same  size, 
(This  I  learned  lately,  with  painful  surprise.) 
Where  are  the  Philippines?     /  never  knew, 
Near  to  some  Isthmus,  /  thought  that  they  grew  .  . 
Peace,  troubled  spirit,  Secunda  knows  all! 
Fearless  she  spins  the  terrestrial  ball. 

This  solid  ground  that  I  totter  upon, 
People  assure  me  revolves  'round  the  sun. 
How  do  we  all  of  us  stick  in  one  place? 
Why  don't  we  tumble  at  once  into  space? 
How  do  thermometers  know  when  it's  hot? 
Was  my  great-uncle  a  monkey — or  not? 
Wait — I've  a  son.     He'll  explain,  beyond  doubt, 
Why  the  Atlantic  can  never  fall  out ! 


THE  ROYAL  ROAD  TO 
LEARNING 

IF  people  could  only  be  as  simple  and  consistent 
as  the  heroines  and  villains  in  melodramas ! 
In  those  days  you  knew  where  you  were,  so  to 
speak.  If  a  black-eyed  lady  came  out  upon  the 
stage  in  a  red  dress  and  smoked  a  cigarette,  there 
was  really  no  necessity  for  her  looking  or  wearing 
or  doing  anything  further.  Her  life  was  as  an 
open  book  before  you.  The  merest  child  in  the 
audience  realized  that  she  had  had  an  uncertain 
past  and  would  have  an  only-too-certain  future. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  a  blonde  lady  in  a  white 
dress  emerged  from  the  wings,  delicately  pressing 
a  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  the  situation  was 
equally  lucid:  you  realized  instantly  that  under 
no  circumstances  whatever,  in  this  or  any  other 
world,  could  that  blonde  lady  be  or  do  or  think 
anything  wrong.  Mistaken  she  might  be,  injured 
she  almost  necessarily  must  be,  but  a  fault  she 
could  never  possess.  She  was  the  heroine. 

Which  goes  to  show,  if  anybody  needed  to  be 
shown,  that  people  fly  to  the  drama  as  a  relief  for 

79 


80  ON    OUR    HILL 

anything  they  are  likely  to  find  in  real  life:  the 
more  different  it  is,  the  more  they  like  it.  Real 
ism  must  always  be  an  academic  subject,  confined 
to  professors  and  Russian  novelists. 

I  suppose  the  deep,  underlying  cause  of  this  to 
be  the  fact  that  real  people  are  so  frightfully  puz 
zling  that  nobody  would  pay  good  money  to  be 
further  puzzled  on  the  stage.  We  want  to  be 
able  to  understand  somebody,  and  so  we  hire  peo 
ple  to  write  plays  for  us,  with  good  people  and 
bad  people,  and  clever  people  and  stupid  people, 
who  shall  be  as  easy  to  understand  as  fat  people 
and  thin  people.  Now,  nobody  can  be  fat  and 
thin  at  the  same  time;  any  one  can  tell  a  fat  per 
son  from  a  thin  person.  But,  unfortunately, 
many  people  can  be  clever  and  stupid  at  the  same 
time,  and  almost  any  one  can  be  and  is  good  and 
bad  at  the  same  time.  So  how  on  earth  are  you 
going  to  tell? 

God  has  never  been  willing  to  label  his  charac 
ters  —  he  leaves  it  to  the  historians.  And  hu 
manity,  being  notoriously  impatient  and  incura 
bly  fond  of  labels,  goes  in  crowds  to  weep  at  "East 
Lynne"  and  refuses  to  find  its  uncles  and  aunts 
dramatic.  And  if  aunts  are  not  dramatic,  tell 
me  what  is ! 


ROYAL    ROAD    TO    LEARNING    81 

Now  women  go  to  the  theatre  more  than  men. 
To  follow  my  theory  further,  they  go  there  be 
cause,  more  than  men  do,  they  wish  to  recuperate 
themselves  with  the  sight  of  neat,  clear  types  of 
character,  easy  to  grasp,  and  simple  to  foresee; 
types  they  can  praise  or  blame  with  a  clear  con 
science.  This  they  can  never  do  at  home,  be 
cause  they  are  constantly  confronted  with  men 
and  children,  two  classes  of  human  beings  who 
can  never  be  foreseen  and  can  neither  be  praised 
nor  blamed  with  impunity. 

Suppose,  for  instance,  that  you  were  reading 
about  Prima  in  a  book.  If  you  knew  that  she 
was  blonde  and  calm  and  slow  and  argumenta 
tive;  if  the  author  told  you  that  she  was  exact 
and  positive,  and  had  to  have  jokes  explained  to 
her,  and  was  otherwise  dependable  —  wouldn't 
you  know,  without  being  told,  that  she  was  good 
at  mathematics  and  dates,  and  poor  at  art,  and 
would  always  know  where  she  left  her  galoshes? 

But  no  mother  will  be  surprised  to  learn  that 
Prima,  not  being  in  a  book,  but  an  irrational 
human  child,  attains  with  difficulty  a  rank  of 
fifty-three  in  mathematics0,  assigns  1492  as  the 
sailing  date  of  the  Mayflower,  wabbling  between 
Columbus  and  Captain  John  Smith  for  admiral, 


82  ON     OUR    HILL 

takes  the  highest  rank  in  the  school  in  music,  and 
draws  and  paints  charmingly !  And  the  list  of 
her  lost  articles  of  clothing  is  longer  than  a  laun 
dry  bill,  which  it  strikingly  resembles. 

On  the  other  hand,  take  Secunda.  She  is  as 
graceful  as  a  fairy  and  as  flyaway  as  thistle-down. 
She  loves  you  when  you  come  and  forgets  you 
when  you  go.  Her  pretty,  pointed  fingers  drop 
things  clumsily,  her  easy  laughter  bubbles  into 
sudden  tears. 

"If  she  can't  do  sums,"  Our  Mother  says  toler 
antly  to  the  earnest  young  teacher,  "never  mind. 
It's  not  your  fault,  you  know.  She  doesn't  re 
member  things,  you  see*.  I've  lived  a  long  and 
useful  life  without  arithmetic  (I  never  knew 
whether  to  divide  the  men  into  the  dollars  or  the 
dollars  into  the  days!),  and  she's  obviously  such 
an  artistic  type.  .  .  ." 

And  Secunda  gets  ninety  odd  in  arithmetic,  and 
never  forgets  any  facts  she  reads,  and  has  a  stiff 
hand  for  the  piano,  and  can't  conventionalize  a 
flower  design !  And  though  she  leaves  her  things 
about,  she  remembers  perfectly  where  and  why 
she  left  them,  and  explains  it  so  entertainingly 
that  everybody  laughs  and  goes  and  finds  them 
for  her. 


ROYAL    ROAD    TO    LEARNING    83 

"But  I'm  sure  all  your  father's  family  can  do 
arithmetic!"  Our  Mother  wails.  "Why  can't 
you,  Prirna?  What's  the  good  of  looking  like 
them  and  coughing  like  them,  and  always  being 
right  like  them,  if  you  can't  do  arithmetic?" 

"But  I  can,"  says  Prima  calmly.  "I  can  do 
arithmetic.  It's  only  problems  I  can't  do.  The 
real  lessons  I  get  all  right;  it's  only  men  and  gal 
lons  and  decimals  and  things  like  that  —  they 
mix  me  up.  If  they'd  leave  problems  out,  I  could 
do  anything  in  arithmetic!" 

"But  that's  what  arithmetic  is  for  —  to  teach 
you  how  to  do  problems.  That's  the  whole 
point." 

"But  why  should  I  want  to?  What  use  will 
they  be  to  me?  Miss  Marks  says  they're  to 
train  my  mind,  but  why  can't  I  train  my  mind  in 
some  sensible  thing?  Nobody'll  go  around  ask 
ing  me  questions  about  galvanized -iron  tanks, 
will  they,  when  I'm  grown  up?" 

"Give  me  the  book,"  says  Our  Mother  wearily. 

"If  60  men  can  pour  8,794  gallons  of  water 
per  hour  into  a  galvanized-iron  tank  - 

"What  is  a  galvanized-iron  tank?" 

"Why,  it's  simply  a  tank  that  has  been  .  .  . 
Look  here,  Prima,  it  doesn't  make  the  least  differ- 


84  ON     OUR     HILL 

ence  whether  it's  galvanized  or  not.  It  might  be 
lined  with  asbestos  or  red  Canton  flannel  or  Eng 
lish  ivy.  The  point  is  that  it  is  a  tank.  They 
simply  wish  to  know  whether  you  know  whether 
to  multiply  or  divide.  Do  you?" 

"Of  course.  If* it's  a  large  number,  I  divide  it; 
if  it's  a  sniall  number,  I  multiply." 

There  is  a  long,  pained  silence.  Finally  Our 
Mother  lifts  her  head  and  says  gently: 

"Listen  to  me,  dear.  If  you  and  Secunda  and 
Tertius  can  each  pour  a  tooth  mug  of  water  in  a 
minute  into  the  bathtub,  how  many  can  you  pour 
in  two  minutes?" 

"Six." 

"Very  good.  Now,  how  many  can  you  pour 
in  an  hour?" 

"One  hundred  and  eighty." 

"In  a  day?" 

"I'd  multiply  by -- by -- twenty-four.  Only, 
of  course,  Tertius  couldn't  sit ,  up  all  night." 

"Very  well,  then,  subtract  the  night." 

"For  just  him?" 

"For  all  of  you." 

She  tells  the  answer,  after  a  breathless  struggle, 
and  so  far  as  Our  Mother  is  able  to  judge,  it  is 
right. 


ROYAL    ROAD    TO    LEARNING    85 

"Now,  supposing  the  tub  is  five  feet  long  and 

-and  two  feet  high  and --well,  say  two  feet 
across,  how  many  cubic  feet  are  in  that  tub?" 

"I  know;  you  multiply  'em  all  by  each  other." 

"Now  suppose  there  is  half  a  pint  in  every 
tooth  mug,  and  you  pour  in  a  pint  and  a  half 
every  minute  —  for  heaven's  sake,  what  are  we 
going  to  find  out?" 

Our  Mother's  head  swims  wildly;  there  seems 
to  be  no  limit  to  the  things  one  could  find  out  if 
one  kept  at  it ! 

"It's  like  cat's-cradle ! "  she  murmurs. 

"How  much  —  no,  how  many  —  I  mean  how 
long- 

"How  many  of  us  are  there?"  Secunda  volun 
teers  helpfully. 

"How  silly!  We  know  that.  There  are  three 
of  us,"  Prima  declares  disgustedly. 

"Oh,  well,  that  doesn't  matter;  prob'ly  the 
man  that  wrote  the  book  knows  how  many  of  all 
those  things,  but  you  have  to  find  'em  out.  We 
would  be  a  problem  to  him,  you  see,"  Secunda 
explains  luminously. 

"I'll  bet  you  would!"  says  Our  Mother  inele 
gantly.  "Now,  listen,  Prima.  There  must  be 
something  an  arithmetic  would  insist  upon  know- 


86  ON    OUR    HILL 

ing  about  all  these  vital  facts.  If  all  the  things 
we  have  worked  out  are  true,  and  I  firmly  believe 
they  are,  what  is  there  left  to  deduce  from  them  ? 
Let  me  see.  .  .  .  Something  like  .  .  .  how  many 
tubs  you  could  fill  in  February  in  leap-year  if  you 
were  all  twins?  I  think  that's  pretty  good,"  ob 
serves  Our  Mother  with  modest  pride.  "Can 
you  do  that,  Prima?" 

"Oh,  Mother  1" 

"It's  about  as  silly  as  most  of  'em,"  Secunda 
remarks  impersonally. 

Tertius  raises  his  hand  wildly;  he  has  been 
taught  to  do  this  to  avoid  interrupting  conversa 
tions,  and  is  extremely  proud  of  it  as  his  one  aca 
demic  accomplishment. 

"I  know!  I  know!"  he  cries,  "I  know  what 
Z'ddo!" 

"What,  angel?" 

"Turn  on  the  tap  and  get  through  with  it!"  he 
crows. 

Secunda  falls  into  one  of  those  bubbling,  chuck 
ling,  clucking  fits  of  mirth  that  spread  hysteria 
through  delighted  classrooms;  Tertius  is  snatched 
violently  up  to  Our  Mother's  lap,  and  the  papers 
and  erasers  fly  about  the  floor,  pencil-points  snap 
under  his  impact.  Archimedes  would  have  turned 


ROYAL    ROAD    TO    LEARNING    87 

green  with  envy  at  his  rival's  sensational  tri 
umph. 

He  is  presented  with  a  rolled  diploma  accom 
panied  by  a  neat  speech  full  of  the  resounding 
Latin  words  nobody  ever  understands  (the  diploma 
is  a  blank  for  Our  Mother's  income  tax) ;  he  has  a 
gold-y  medal  on  an  ultramarine  ribbon  pinned  on 
his  blouse  (it  says  Vacation  Savings  Fund  Ball, 
Executive  Committee,  all  around  the  edges  of  it); 
in  short,  nothing  is  spared  that  could  make  the 
occasion  memorable. 

"All  the  same,"  says  Our  Mother,  "that  prob 
lem  can  be  worked,  Prirna,  I'm  sure  of  it.  Come 
along." 

And  after  a  time,  and  times,  and  half  a  time,  as 
it  says  in  the  Book  of  Revelation,  the  problem  is 
worked,  and  the  tooth  mugs  are  turned  into  feet 
and  gallons  and  hours  and  dollars,  and  back  again 
into  tooth  mugs,  and  Prirna  admits  that  she  never 
understood  problems  really,  before. 

"If  only  you  could  teach  me!"  she  implores 
adoringly. 

Our  Mother  is  drawn  and  gray  and  all  wrinkles. 
She  is  perfectly  hoarse  and  quite  hollow  and 
empty.  Her  teeth  are  broken  at  the  edges,  where 
she  has  gritted  them  together,  and  there  is  a  hor- 


88  ON     OUR     HILL 

rible  dull  feeling  at  the  back  of  her  neck,  but  she 
is  triumphant.  It  is  quite  clear  that  any  one 
can  be  taught  arithmetic  if  the  teacher  goes  about 
it  in  the  right  way. 

"No  wonder  they  hate  the  books,"  she  explains 
to  Miss  Paul;  "no  wonder  they  can't  do  the  silly 
problems,  when  they  are  worried  and  misled  all 
the  time  by  a  lot  of  phrases  they  never  meet  in 
life  and  never  will.  Why  not  make  problems 
about  velocipedes  and  bathtubs  and  roller-skates 
and  rice  puddings  ?  Why  drag  in  travelling  sales 
men's  commissions,  and  six  hundredweight  of  Aus 
tralian  wool  seconds,  and  seventeen  cubic  yards  of 
Portland  cement?  I  believe  that  all  those  tech 
nical  terms  confuse  the  issue  and  take  off  just  so 
much  nerve  energy.  Once  you  learn  the  theory, 
then,  of  course,  all  those  terms  don't  matter. 

"Come  here,  Prima,  and  see  how  exactly  alike 
all  that  galvanized-tank  stuff  is.  Only  we'll  make 
it  simpler,  to  begin. 

"Now:  if  two  men  can  pour  four  gallons  of 
water  an  hour  into  a  galvanized-iron  tank,  how 
many  can  four  men  pour?" 

"Two!"  says  Prima,  promptly  and  brightly. 

One  sees  why  school-teachers  have  that  bat 
tered  look ! 


ROYAL    ROAD    TO    LEARNING    89 

What  is  it  all  about,  anyway?  I  went  to 
school,  you  went  to  school.  It  stands  to  reason 
we  must  have  learned  something  there.  What 
was  it?  Rhode  Island,  I  know,  was  yellow,  and 
Maine  a  deep  plum  color.  We  did  something  we 
called  parsing,  a  word  I  always  confused  with 
parsnips;  we  invariably  shut  our  eyes  while  en 
gaged  in  it.  It  never  connected  itself  in  the  faint 
est  degree  with  the  English  language,  in  my  mind, 
and  never  affected  my  sense  of  the  relations  of 
words.  I  supposed  then  —  as  I  do  now  --  that  it 
was  an  invention  of  those  mysterious  beings  who 
plotted  against  my  leisure  and  filled  up  my  time 
for  reasons  of  their  own. 

And  now,  in  spite  of  all  the  automobiles  and 
aeroplanes  and  wireless  telegraphy  that  stretch 
between,  here  is  Prima  busily  engaged  in  parsing ! 
Neither  Cubists  nor  Feminists  nor  Vers-Librists 
have  affected  that  ancient  and  honorable  idiocy 
in  the  slightest;  nor  has  it  affected  in  the  slightest 
the  minds  of  its  practitioners. 

Every  day  Prima  begins,  "Miss  Marks  she 
says,"  and  every  day  Our  Mother  interrupts, 
"Miss  Marks  says!  One  subject  is  enough  for  a 
sentence,  isn't  it?  That's  the  use  of  grammar, 
you  see." 


90  ON     OUR    HILL 

:<Ye-es,"  Prima  answers  vaguely,  "only  it  al 
ways  sounds  so  much  better  to  me  the  other 
way." 

It  is  perfectly  clear  that  those  ideas  they  are 
always  harping  on  in  the  grammar  have  nothing 
to  do  with  human  speech  in  Prima's  mind.  Had 
they  in  yours? 

Of  course,  you  and  I  would  not  say,  "Miss 
Marks  she  -  '  but  why  wouldn't  we  ?  Because 
we  neither  hear  it  nor  read  it,  mostly;  perhaps,  a 
little,  because  we  studied  Latin. 

They  work  so  hard --the  busy,  funny,  pa 
thetic  little  creatures !  What  do  we  know  to-day 
of  all  they  are  learning  now?  Months  and  sea 
sons  and  years  of  it  pass  over  their  defenseless 
heads,  and  at  last  they  grow  up  and  become  men 
and  women,  and  learn  what  love  is  and  what 
money  is,  and  what  will  give  them  indigestion,  if 
they  eat  it  —  and  by  that  time  it  doesn't  much 
matter  what  they  eat ! 

And  then,  solemnly,  they  watch  their  children 
parsing  their  way  through  the  years,  and  scold 
them  severely  if  they  fail  to  attain  a  high  rank  in 
examinations  which  would  leave  any  orator  or 
author  of  my  acquaintance  without  even  a  credit 
able  passing  mark ! 


ROYAL    ROAD    TO    LEARNING    91 

Ah,  well,  those  happy  childish  days  are  over, 
thank  heaven,  and  we  can  learn  what  we  like. 

"But  why  do  I  have  to  go?"  Prima  argues  - 
"why?" 

"People  always  send  their  children  to  school. 
Haven't  you  noticed?"  Our  Mother  replies. 

'Yes,  I  see  they  do;  but  I'm  asking  why  they 
do." 

''Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  thought  of  it 
before,"  Our  Mother  begins  recklessly,  "but  I 
suppose  people  send  their  children  for  different 
reasons.  Poor  people,  who  have  to  be  at  work  all 
the  time,  send  their  children  to  get  them  out  of 
the  way  —  as  a  matter  of  fact,  they're  safer  in 
school,  and  they  learn  how  to  behave  better. 
Stupid  people  send  them  so  that  they  won't  have 
to  answer  all  the  questions  the  children  would 
ask.  Clever  people  send  them  because  if  they 
answered  all  the  questions,  the  children  would 
know  as  much  as  they  do,  very  soon,  and  then 
how  would  they  keep  them  down,  you  see? 
Whereas  in  any  properly  conducted  school  no 
child  has  any  time  to  ask  questions  that  aren't  in 
the  book,  and  none  of  those  answers  would  ever 
help  the  child  to  get  ahead  of  a  sensible,  grown-up 
person.  School  keeps  you  from  knowing  too 


92  ON    OUR    HILL 

much  too  soon.  It  gives  us  a  chance.  We  keep 
you  there  till  you're  of  age,  and  then  we  can't, 
any  longer,  and  you  break  out  and  begin  to  man 
age  everything." 

"Is  that  true?"  says  Prima,  frowning. 

"No,  it's  a  joke,  silly!"  Secunda  cries  and 
laughs  consumedly.  This  really  worries  Our 
Mother. 

"Look  here,  Secunda,  you  can't  possibly  be 
clever  enough  to  think  that's  funny !"  she  threat 
ens  her  second  daughter.  "I  don't  believe  they're 
giving  you  enough  to  do !  Are  you  studying 
grammar  yet?  I  think  you'd  better.  Tell  them 
I  say  you  appear  to  me  to  be  coming  out  of  the 
anaesthetic  too  soon,  and  I  think  you're  old  enough 
to  parse !" 

"Grammar!  Phe-ew!"  Secunda  whistles.  "I'm 
not  nearly  to  that,  Muddy.  I'm  only  Lower  In 
termediate;  we  do  littachoor  and  English.  Why 
do  they  call  it  littachoor  ?-- it's  'The  Village 
Blacksmith,'  really.  'The  muscles  of  his  brawny 
arms  stand  out  like  iron  bands,'  you  know.  Why 
do  they  call  that  littachoor?" 

"God  knows,"  Our  Mother  replies  piously. 
"They  always  do  in  schools,  I  remember." 

"Miss  Marks  she " 


ROYAL    ROAD    TO    LEARNING    93 

"Will  you  say  that  again,  Prima?" 
"What  for?    Miss  Marks  she " 


"You  are  too  literal,  my  dear.  'Miss  Marks' 
—  what?" 

"Oh!  Miss  Marks  —  oh,  I  mean,  she  says 
can't  I  do  a  little  home  work,  if  it's  only  a  half- 
hour  ?  Then  perhaps  you  could  help  me  with " 

"Now,  Prima,  once  for  all!  If  there  are  two 
things  in  the  world  I'm  sure  of,  one  is  that  the 
plumbing  in  this  house  was  wrong  from  the  begin 
ning,  and  the  other  is  that  you  will  not  do  any 
home  work !  If  you  will  explain  to  Miss  Marks 
again  for  the  eighteenth  time  that  you  rise  at 
seven,  breakfast  at  half  past,  practise  till  eight- 
thirty,  attend  school  till  one,  lie  down  after  lunch 
till  three,  play  out-of-doors  till  five,  practise,  and 
eat  supper  till  six,  and  then  I  read  to  you  till 
quarter  of  seven,  when  you  go  to  bed,  where  does 
she  propose  to  insert  the  home  work?" 

Our  Mother  draws  a  long  breath,  which  is 
needed  at  this  point,  and  grows  very  red  and  very 
firm. 

"What  a  child  of  ten  cannot  learn  in  four  hours 
a  day  it  had  better  not  learn  at  all." 
'Ye-es,  but  my  study  periods " 

"  Ah  !     There  we  have  it !     You  tell  Miss  Marks 


94  ON    OUR    HILL 

that  if  she'll  teach  you  your  lessons,  I'll  hear  you 
recite  them  with  pleasure  —  or  Secunda  may;  she 
can  hold  the  book  as  well  as  anybody  else." 

This,  for  some  reason,  is  the  concluding  phrase 
for  Our  Mother  in  any  such  argument.  She 
considers  it  unassailable,  unanswerable,  final. 
And  perhaps  it  is. 

But  of  course  they  will  remember  nothing  of 
all  this:  why  should  they?  Multiplication  has 
been  vexation  since  Noah  was  a  sailor.  None  of 
the  new  psychological  ways  of  learning  it  can  en 
dear  it  to  youth,  and  youth  knows  it,  and  makes 
the  same  faces  and  the  same  excuses  that  Cain 
and  Abel  brought  to  the  despairing  Eve.  And 
just  as  it  happens  now,  when  the  apples  were  green 
and  hard,  poor  little  Cain  insisted  that  two  snakes 
could  only  make  half  as  many  suggestions  as  one 
snake;  and  by  the  time  the  apples  were  red  and 
soft  he  triumphantly  computed  that  two  cherubim 
with  two  flaming  swords  could  guard  twice  as 
many  gates  as  one  cherub  with  one  flaming  sword, 
and  Eve  gave  him  a  report  card  with  a  hundred 
written  on  it,  and  a  big  apple.  And  he  never 
realized,  poor  child,  that  if  she  had  never  picked 
it  he  would  never  have  had  to  earn  it,  and  went 
on  growing  cleverer  and  cleverer,  till  he  came  to  a 


•I 


: 


ROYAL    ROAD    TO    LEARNING    97 

bad  end!  Because  even  then,  you  see,  children 
didn't  work  out  as  you  might  have  supposed. 

But  what  does  it  matter  about  the  lessons? 
You  lived  through  them,  and  I  lived  through 
them ;  and  really,  the  teachers  must  suffer  so  much 
more,  that  any  tortures  of  the  parties  of  the  second 
part  must  be  admitted  to  be  negligible. 

What  they  will  remember,  what  they  must  re 
member,  is  surely  the  winsome  picture  of  those 
white-clad  mites  they  used  to  be,  funnily  plump, 
funnily  bony,  wistful  under  their  fillets  of  rose  and 
blue,  dancing  their  hard-learned  little  dances  with 
careful  seriousness,  under  the  pink  apple-blossoms 
blazing  against  the  blue  porcelain  of  the  sky. 

:<This  time,"  Our  Mother  promises  herself,  "I 
will  not  be  an  ass  !  This  time  I  will  not  cry !" 

And  she  chats  with  the  mothers,  and  nods  to 
the  teachers,  and  settles  Tertius  in  one  of  the  tiny 
chairs  arranged  in  the  shade  for  visiting  relatives 
of  his  size. 

"Marching  drill  by  the  younger  pupils!"  is 
announced,  and  the  tinkling  school  piano  (there 
must  be  some  depot  where  they  are  all  bought; 
they  sound  so  much  alike!)  strikes  up  a  martial 
tune,  thin  and  unreal  out  there  under  the  great 
turquoise  dome. 


98  ON     OUR    HILL 

They  file  proudly  past,  and  Our  Mother  begins 
to  feel  those  horrid  premonitions  of  excitement 
that  muffle  her  heart  and  prickle  her  eyes. 

"Now,  now  -  -  they  are  only  a  pack  of  brats 
trying  to  keep  step  on  uneven  grass,"  she  tells 
herself  warningly.  'You  have  seen  them  all  be 
fore.  There's  not  a  chance  in  a  hundred  they 
all  have  pocket-handkerchiefs  - 

And  then  Secunda  swings  past,  head  up,  cheeks 
flaming,  her  hair  standing  out  like  a  Bronzino 
angel's,  and  Our  Mother's  chin  begins  to  tremble, 
and  she  feels  as  the  man  in  the  barrel  must  feel 
when  he  poises  on  the  brim  of  Niagara ! 

"Who  is  that  stunning  child  with  the  hair?" 
says  a  man's  voice.  "Look  at  those  cheeks,  will 
you?  She's  got  it  in  her,  all  right !" 

The  others  are  marching,  but  Secunda  is  pranc 
ing.  Her  whole  soul  is  in  this  ritual;  she  is  tense 
with  pride  in  her  school  and  her  part.  She  forges 
ahead  like  Joan  of  Arc,  patting  out  the  time  with 
her  feet;  by  twos  she  marches,  by  fours,  in  circles, 
in  squares;  as  she  wheels  by  Our  Family  she  flashes 
a  grin  at  them. 

"Hullo,  Tertius!"  she  calls,  and  everybody 
laughs,  as  everybody  always  laughs  at  Secunda. 

Our  Mother  stiffens  her  chin  on  her  son's  soft 
shoulder. 


; 


v 


•8 


ROYAL  ROAD  TO  LEARNING  101 

"'Cunda's  garters  show,"  he  observes  critically. 

Of  course  they  do  -  -  they  always  do.  In  mo 
ments  of  supreme  exaltation  Secunda's  garters, 
for  some  mysterious  reason,  suddenly  leap  into 
view,  and  indiscreet  lengths  of  Hamburg  edging 
lacerate  the  finer  feelings  of  the  more  conserva 
tive  members  of  Our  Family.  Nobody  has  ever 
been  able  to  account  for  it,  and  more  than  one 
careful  person  would  go  to  the  stake  swearing 
that  the  child  started  out  sufficiently  and  mod 
estly  clothed.  Our  Mother's  theory  is  that  she 
swells  in  bulk,  like  the  Delphic  pythoness,  in  ex 
citement,  and  literally  adds  a  cubit,  more  or  less, 
to  her  stature. 

They  stand  at  attention,  their  hands  raised  in 
salute,  and  everybody  applauds,  and  Our  Mother 
bites  her  lip  and  glares  straight  ahead  of  her.  At 
least  nothing  has  splashed  on  her  cheek  —  yet. 
Why,  oh,  why,  must  she  feel  like  this  ? 

"Greek  Dance,  by  the  Juniors,"  is  announced, 
and  now  Our  Mother  realizes  that  there  is  no 
more  hope.  One  glance  at  Prima,  and  teacupfuls 
of  tears  (or  so  it  seems  to  her  enraged  fancy) 
splash  and  pour  and  stream  down  her  burning 
cheeks.  For  if  Secunda,  triumphant  and  seduc 
tive,  thrills  her,  how  could  she  bear  up  against 


102  ON    OUR    HILL 

dear,  plump,  determined  Prima,  for  whom  the 
mere  fact  of  dancing  at  all  is  a  triumph  ? 

The  flowing  draperies  that  float  about  her  angu 
lar  partner  encompass  Prima's  rounder  bulk  with 
firm  neatness.  An  uncompromising  blue  sash 
swathes  her  stomach.  Her  thick,  unrippled  hair 
falls  heavily  back  from  her  pink-and-white  face. 
Her  clear  blue  eyes  seek  eagerly  through  the  audi 
ence,  peering  earnestly  for  Her  Mother.  She  is  no 
Joan  of  Arc,  drunk  with  impersonation,  to  whom 
art  for  art's  sake  is  overwhelmingly  enough,  but 
a  conscientious  little  Anglo-Saxon,  who  has  pa 
tiently  toiled  at  these  unnatural  attitudes  (and 
learned  them,  let  me  tell  you  !)  and  wishes  to  reap 
the  reward  of  her  labors  in  Her  Mother's  smile. 

"I  hope  you  like  it,  darling,"  her  round  blue 
eyes  beseech.  "I  know  it's  not  the  best  thing  I 
do,  and  I'm  not  Greek,  really,  you  know,  and  I 
simply  cannot  keep  my  toes  turned  out.  And 
my  sash  hitches  up  over  my  stomach.  But  I 
keep  the  time,  don't  I  ?  And  I  learned  the  steps 
before  lots  of  others.  And  I  do  it  a  little  better 
every  year  —  are  you  pleased  ?  " 

Our  Mother  sops  her  eyes  with  Tertius's  hand 
kerchief,  and  swallows  violently,  and  loves  Prima 
more  than  anything  on  earth ! 


ROYAL  ROAD  TO  LEARNING  103 

We  fall  into  each  other's  arms  at  the  end,  and  it 
is  pleasant  to  see  how  every  one  appreciates  what 
we  have  accomplished. 

"She  really  knows  some  things  awfully  well," 
says  the  teacher  kindly,  "and  of  course,  you 
know,  she  waltzes  beautifully!" 

Who  thinks  about  the  galvanized-iron  tank  now  ? 
Who  bothers  about  Columbus  and  the  Mayflower? 

We  walk  through  the  rooms  where  the  sewing 
and  the  modelling  in  clay  and  the  conventional 
ized  wild  flowers  and  the  stencilling  and  the  car 
pentry  are  displayed.  Prima  has  embroidered  a 
glove  case  in  cross-stitch,  and  modelled  a  spray 
of  dogwood,  and  designed  a  candle-shade  in  silk, 
and  sewed  an  apron  from  hem  to  buttonhole. 

Secunda  has  sawed  and  nailed  and  stained  a 
tray  for  Our  Mother,  and  woven  a  rattan  foot 
stool  for  Godmother. 

"And  look  at  my  gold  stars  for  spelling !" 

The  mothers  stroll  through  the  rooms,  idly 
pushing  the  exhibitions  about  till  they  find  the 
name  they  are  looking  for,  when  they  draw  a  deep 
breath,  and  their  eyes  shine  like  people's  eyes  in 
the  Sistine  Chapel. 

They  tell  me  that  all  this  is  going  to  change, 
and  that  the  eyes  of  the  New  Motherhood  are 


104  ON    OUR    HILL 

going  to  kindle  for  the  children  of  the  world  —  not 
merely  their  own  children.  They  tell  me  that 
motherhood,  hitherto  a  local  and  almost  personal 
matter,  has  accomplished  as  little  as  it  has,  all 
these  years,  for  just  this  narrowing  and  selfish 
reason.  The  new  mother  will  love  all  children 
because  they  are  children,  not  merely  a  few  chil 
dren  because  they  are  hers.  A  lady  on  a  platform 
once  fixed  her  eye  on  me  and  cried  aloud  that  the 
modern  mother  had  escaped  from  the  home,  and 
was  mothering  the  community. 

Of  course,  from  my  point  of  view,  she  might  as 
well  have  said  that  the  modern  mother  had  escaped 
from  the  lunatic  asylum,  and  was  mothering  the 
fishes  in  the  aquarium.  Either  sentence  is  sus 
ceptible  of  parsing  and  neither  means  very  much. 
Because,  of  course,  you  cannot  mother  a  normal 
community  any  more  than  you  can  mother  a 
normal  aquarium.  In  my  experience,  whenever  a 
mother  escapes  from  the  home,  it  is  time  for  the 
community  to  escape  from  her  -  -  if  it  can. 

And  I  have  observed  that  people  who  discoursed 
along  those  lines  either  had  no  children  at  all,  or 
had  children  who  didn't,  to  put  it  mildly,  make 
their  remarks  appear  of  any  very  startling  impor 
tance.  After  all,  it  is  Mrs.  Franklin  and  Mrs. 
Hawthorne  and  Mrs.  Lincoln  that  count  in  this 


ROYAL  ROAD  TO  LEARNING  105 

connection,  isn't  it?  And  one  fancies,  somehow, 
that  their  interest  in  Ben  and  Nat  and  Abe  was 
disgustingly  personal  and  limited. 

On  these  gala  occasions  all  the  teachers  in  Our 
School  seek  out  Tertius  and  inquire  with  eager 
ness  when  he  is  coming  to  school?  He  is  very 
polite  to  them  all,  vanishing  into  each  embrace 
with  scrupulous  impartiality,  and  leaving  each 
lady  convinced  that  it  is  on  her  account,  and  hers 
alone,  that  he  will  finally  break  from  the  home 
circle  and  take  up  the  academic  life. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Tertius  is  far  from  unedu 
cated.  Does  he  not  every  day,  while  Miss  Paul 
looks  over  casual  mending,  sit  at  a  little  worn 
brown  table  he  calls  his  "deks,"  for  half  an  hour, 
and  write  practicable  sentences  in  discarded  copy 
books?  Sometimes  he  writes  "the  man  ran  to 
the  pan,"  and  sometimes  he  writes  "the  pan  ran 
to  the  man";  but,  in  any  case,  he  grunts  like  an 
angelic  pigling,  and  hunches  his  shoulders  so  that 
he  appears  to  have  no  neck. 

For  d's  and  b's  he  makes  first  a  round,  unpreju 
diced  symbol,  and  then  attaches  an  upright;  if  to 
the  left,  it  is  a  b;  if  to  the  right,  ad.  A  and  O  he 
makes  in  the  same  way,  attaching  a  sort  of  tea 
cup  handle  to  the  northeast  or  southeast  corner, 
according  to  the  vowel.  His  t's  are  particularly 


106  ON     OUR    HILL 

fascinating  and  individual,  inasmuch  as  he  draws 
the  cross  stroke  first,  then  transfixes  it  with  a 
firm,  downward  drag  of  a  well-licked  pencil. 

But  when  it  is  done  the  page  is  quite  as  legible 
as  if  you  or  I  had  written  it  in  the  conventional 
and  stereotyped  manner. 

And  when  he  composes  his  love-letters,  will  the 
lady  care,  I  ask  you,  how  he  made  the  O  ? 

:<They  care  in  Our  School,  I  can  tell  you !"  says 
Prima  warningly.  'You're  supposed  to  write 
the  school  writing.  What  writing  is  Tertius  sup 
posed  to  be  learning  ?  Just  his  own." 

"Oh,  well,  if  Mother  can  read  it,  it's  all  right,  I 
suppose,  however  he  does  it;  the  use  of  writing  is 
so  you  can  read  it,"  Secunda  contributes  broadly. 

"Not  at  all!  The  use  of  writing  is  to  write  a 
certain  way,"  Prima  persists.  "Anybody  can  just 
make  marks.  You  might  print,  counting  that 
way.  Isn't  that  so,  Mother?" 

:eYou  represent  two  great  cultural  methods,  of 
course,"  says  Our  Mother  thoughtfully.  "Each 
school  has  its  backers.  Personally,  I've  always 
agreed  with  the  prayer-book  that  we  brought 
nothing  into  this  world  and  it  is  certain  that  we 
can  take  nothing  out  of  it.  Maybe  that  applies 
to  our  education,  too." 


HIGH  DAYS  AND  HOLY  DAYS 


ALL  SAINTS 

SAINT  NICHOLAS  and  Saint  Valentine 
Died  long  ago. 

But  holly  wreaths  shall  bloom  and  twine, 
And  lovers  write  "My  heart  is  thine!" 
iWhile  the  tides  flow. 

How  long  shall  reign  that  risen  God? 

Who  of  us  know? 

But  rabbits,  bearing  eggs,  have  trod 

The  immemorial  Druid  sod, 

Since  trees  did  grow. 

On  All  Souls  Eve  no  homesick  sprites 
Haunt  us  below; 

But  Jack-o'-lantern's  winking  lights 
Shall  make  the  children  laugh  o'  nights, 
While  the  stars  glow. 

Why  is  it,  since  from  off  the  earth 

The  Gods  must  go, 

The  games  and  gifts  that  graced  their  birth, 

Of  little  wit,  of  little  worth, 

Still  rule  us  so? 


HIGH  DAYS  AND  HOLY  DAYS 

WILL  they  forget  them,  I  wonder,  those  sol 
emn  feasts  and  ceremonies,  when  they  are 
grown  up,  and  cease  to  hunt  for  colored  eggs,  or 
thrill  at  Christmas  smells,  or  blush  when  the 
relentless  knife  crushes  down  into  the  birthday 
cake  ? 

Then  it  shall  be  Our  Mother's  part,  who  never 
grows  up,  to  keep  those  blessed  memories  green; 
and  if  they  are  destined  to  be  of  those  who  pass 
sadly  out  of  the  meadows  of  childhood,  across  the 
sandy  dunes  of  middle  age,  where  no  Easter  rab 
bits  run,  nor  any  October  witches  gambol  with 
black  cats;  if  they  are  to  join  that  gloomy  com 
pany  to  whom  a  pine-tree  is  as  other  trees,  not 
star-bearing  and  odorous  of  Bethlehem;  if  they 
cast  in  their  lot  with  those  dullards  whom  St.  Val 
entine  has  scratched  from  his  rosy  list  of  corre 
spondents  -  -  why,  so  much  the  worse  for  them ! 
Let  them  learn  by  these  presents  that  in  their 
young  days  they  were  taught  better. 

When  Our  Mother  was  no  older  than  Secunda, 

111 


ON    OUR    HILL 

if  indeed  she  was  as  old  —  children  seem  to  grow 
more  childish  with  every  decade  —  she  was  given 
a  thrillingly  important  part  in  a  Christmas  op 
eretta  which  took  place  in  a  Sunday-school  room. 
Our  Mother  and  another  musical  infant,  robed  in 
clean,  silvery  nightgowns,  kneeled  decorously  at 
the  knees  of  a  pretend  mother  —  she  was  really  a 
young  lady  who  had  never  had  any  children  and 
had  not  the  remotest  idea  how  to  get  them  into 
the  bed  when  they  had  finished  their  prayer  — 
and  sang  "Now  I  lay  me"  in  six-eight  time. 
When  the  other  infant  sang  wrong,  Our  Mother 
kicked  her.  Then  they  pretended  to  go  to  sleep, 
and  it  grew  dark;  finally,  a  great  hairy  Santa 
Claus  came  in,  and  sang  in  a  loud  bass  voice,  and 
picked  them  up  out  of  the  bed,  and  his  beard 
tickled.  There  was,  somehow,  connected  with 
this  man,  a  little  dark-blue  saucer,  with  two  seg 
ments  of  a  very  fat  Christmas  candy -cane  stuck 
together  in  it;  and  now,  after  all  these  years,  each 
one  of  four  seasons,  with  all  their  months  and 
days  and  hours,  if  on  a  darkened  stage,  in  a  tense 
hush,  a  large  man  with  a  beard  ever  sings  in  a 
bass  voice,  across  the  generation  that  stretches 
between  that  nightgowned  imp  and  Our  Mother, 
there  blows  a  faint,  far  scent  of  peppermint,  and 


HIGH   DAYS   AND   HOLY   DAYS     113 

somewhere  inside  her  brain  she  is  aware  that  the 
odor  comes  from  two  fat  segments  of  striped 
candy -cane  reposing  in  a  little  dark-blue  saucer ! 

These  things  are  very  wonderful.  If  Tertius, 
reading  these  lines  at  the  age  of  sixty,  shall  sup 
pose  that  he  understands  them  any  better  than 
he  does  to-day  at  the  age  of  six,  Our  Mother's 
ghost  shall  dance  in  and  laugh  at  him.  She  would 
so  hate  to  see  him  making  an  ass  of  himself. 

What  smells  will  they  remember  ? 

All  children  smell  their  way  through  the  world, 
and  some  of  them  never  cease  to  do  so.  Our 
Mother  drinks  coffee  every  day  of  her  life;  but 
should  she  ever  pass  where  freshly  made  coffee 
mingles  with  the  smell  of  pine  and  hemlock,  she 
hears  immediately,  as  if  it  were  little  bells  playing, 
the  tune  of  "Hark,  the  herald  angels  sing!"  and 
feels  for  one  impalpable  fraction  of  a  second  eight 
years  old  again,  puffed  with  pride  at  attending  an 
evening  rehearsal  of  that  Christmas  operetta ! 

What  finger  traces  those  lines,  so  remorseless, 
so  ironic,  in  that  soft  gray  jelly  that  quivers  in 
that  hard,  round  box,  balanced  so  precariously  on 
the  end  of  your  spine?  And  why  does  the  finger 
trace  such  curious,  such  meaningless  runes?  If 
one  remembered  useful  things  now,  or  even  epoch- 


114  ON    OUR    HILL 

making  things  !  Suppose,  for  instance,  that  when 
you  srnelled  nasturtiums,  hot  in  the  sun,  you 
gasped  at  the  shock  of  your  first  appreciation  of 
the  fact  that  two  and  two  make  four !  Or  sup 
pose  that  when  you  heard  'cello  strings  plucked 
at  random  in  the  twilight  you  remembered  again 
that  Columbus  discovered  America,  because  that 
sound  and  that  knowledge  came  to  you  together. 
Or  suppose  that  a  crimson  sunset  recalled  to  you 
that  a  penny  saved  is  a  penny  earned  ? 

But  that  is  not  the  way.  To  smell  hot  nastur 
tiums  reminds  you  that  you  were  eating  caraway 
cookies,  once,  when  you  smelled  them.  Soft 
pluckings  of  the  'cello  recall  the  red  scarf  that 
some  one  threw  over  the  canary's  cage  when  your 
father  used  to  begin  to  practise;  and  the  flaming 
sunset  is  the  background  for  that  distant  and 
nameless  lady  in  a  white-fringed  shawl,  who  once 
stroked  your  head  as  you  stood  and  stared  into 
the  west.  It  is  all  very  strange. 

What  does  Our  House  smell  of  to  Secunda? 
Our  Mother  does  not,  cannot,  know,  of  course. 
To  her  the  drawing-room  smells  of  floor  polish, 
the  dining-room  smells  of  brass  polish,  the  pantry 
smells  of  silver  polish,  and  the  back  hall  smells  of 
shoe  polish.  But  that  is  because  she  bought  them 


HIGH    DAYS    AND   HOLY   DAYS     115 

all  and  has  definite  ideas  on  the  subject  of  their 
uses,  and  I  doubt  if  they  smell  of  these  things  to 
Secunda. 

All  three  have  inherited  Our  Mother's  passion 
ate  and  mysterious  love  of  rubber  in  all  its  forms. 
Tertius  always  sniffs  his  galoshes  tenderly  before 
putting  them  on,  Prima  once  laid  a  new  rubber 
boot  on  her  pillow  for  the  night,  and  Secunda  used 
to  chew  hers,  like  a  puppy !  Rubber  balls  are  in 
dented  with  the  luxurious  nuzzlings  of  their  own 
ers,  and  elastic  bands  have  to  be  jerked  from 
between  their  protesting  teeth.  Mounting  the  rub 
ber-matted  stairs  that  lead  to  the  dentist,  they 
stop  and  sniff  the  air  like  bloodhounds  about  to 
pick  up  the  trail.  Our  Mother  remembers  her 
Aunt's  rubber  bath-brush  that  she  nearly  ate,  and 
shakes  a  mournful  head. 

"Can't  you  inherit  anything  respectable?"  she 
begs  them;  but  here,  again,  the  ways  of  Nature 
are  inscrutable. 

Up  to  the  day  before  Christmas  Eve  all  is  calm 
in  Our  Family.  Packages  arrive,  all  battered 
through  the  misleading  parcel-post,  and  are  piled 
in  Our  Mother's  closet;  as  to  Christmas  cards,  she 
can  never  decide.  Is  it  better  to  hand  them  out 
as  they  come,  or  to  save  them  for  one  grand  hand- 


116  ON     OUR    HILL 

ful  apiece?     Does   it  dull  or  whet  the  edge  of 
appetite  to  dribble  them  out? 

So  she  piles  them  on  a  corner  of  her  big  down 
stairs  desk,  behind  the  letter  scale,  while  she  is 
making  up  her  mind,  and  the  parlor-maid  packs 
them  away  neatly  in  the  pigeonhole  labelled  "  Cir 
culars,  etc.,"  and  they  lie  there  till  January,  when 
all  the  pigeonholes  are  tidied,  and  Prima  shouts: 

"Oh,  there  it  is!  'Prima,  from  her  rector'! 
I  knew  it !  I  knew  I  had  one !  Secunda  said  he 
skipped  me  because  I  only  put  four  pennies  in  my 
envelope  the  day  I  hadn't  a  five-cent  piece,  but  I 
knew  he  didn't!  He  doesn't  keep  the  money, 
anyhow.  What  does  he  care  ?  " 

"Who  does  get  the  money?"  inquires  Tertius. 

"People  that  worship  statues,"  Secunda  in 
forms  him,  "or  else  the  man  that  plays  the  organ, 
most  prob'ly." 

"Nonsense!  It  goes  into  the  church,"  says 
Our  Mother  absently. 

"  Oh,  yes  —  with  a  trowel.  And  writings.  And 
they  stand  around  and  sing." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Kiddie?"  asks  Our  Gov 
erness,  bewildered. 

"She  means  laying  a  corner-stone,"  Our  Mother 
explains,  reading  a  letter  with  one  hand,  as  it 


HIGH   DAYS   AND   HOLY   DAYS     117 

were,  and  signing  checks  with  the  other.  "I'm 
writing,  Miss  Paul,  that  we  did  return  those 
twelve-and-a-half  lace  boots  for  Tertius,  and  we 
can't  help  it  if  they  have  no  record  of  it.  They 
were  so  long  filling  the  order,  that  he  grew,  in  be 
tween.  I  cannot  understand  why  it  is  that  they 
are  always  out  of  my  children's  sizes !" 

But  it  is  the  23d  of  December.  To-day  the 
Tree  came  bumping  up  the  stairs  to  the  billiard- 
room.  It  is  neither  large  nor  small  —  rather 
large  for  a  small  tree,  but  distinctly  small  for  a 
large  one,  if  that  brings  any  picture  to  your  mind. 
We  get  the  school  tree,  after  their  Christmas 
play  is  over,  and  armfuls  of  their  long,  fragrant 
wreaths.  The  old  sage-green  slip-cover  that  in 
May  used  to  go  over  the  big  settle  in  the  New 
York  house  is  draped  about  the  box  the  tree 
stands  in,  and  out  of  the  third-floor  closet  come 
the  deep,  fire-hearted  balls,  the  silvery,  giant 
acorns,  frosted  like  Christmas  Eve,  the  mysterious 
gilt  birds  with  shining  wire  tails  and  sapphire  and 
emerald  bodies,  the  yards  of  gold  and  silver  fluff 
that  settle  like  moonlighted  snow  and  star  clus 
ters  wherever  it  lies.  Out,  too,  come  the  funny 
little  battered  one-time  ornaments  that  went  on 
Our  Mother's  tree,  long  ago.  The  rope  that  looked 


118  ON    OUR    HILL 

like  powdered  gold  then  is  no  more  than  a  dingy, 
dull  cord  now;  but  she  and  Our  Aunty  never  dress 
a  tree  without  the  ridiculous  things,  and  they 
have  their  honored  place. 

Not  that  they  go  on  to-day.  No;  this  is  shop 
ping  day.  And  note  well  that  while  you  may  go, 
and  wisely,  to  the  city  for  bows  and  arrows  and 
roller-skates  and  Howard  Pyle  Robin  Hoods,  the 
village  is  the  place  for  Christmas  shopping  that 
really  counts.  There  the  wreaths  lie  in  glistening 
piles  between  the  plucked  turkeys  and  the  barrel 
of  white  grapes  in  sawdust.  Our  Mother  adds  up 
the  windows  hastily  in  her  mind. 

"Heavens!  I  certainly  shan't  get  all  those!" 
she  cries.  "Send  me,  send  me  -  -  two  dozen !" 

Now  we  pause  before  the  five-and-ten-cent  shop 
and  Our  Family  looks  discreetly  away  into  space 
While  Our  Mother  hops  out  and  buys  the  stocking 
toys.  There  is  nothing  in  all  the  ritual  of  Christ- 
mastide  to  compare  with  them  in  interest.  Think 
not,  bestower  of  electric  trains  that  run  on  the 
billiard-table,  that  you  can  inspire  a  shriek  equal 
to  the  shriek  that  shall  greet  the  three  tiny  motor 
cars  that  will  emerge  from  those  three  brown 
stockings  on  the  day  after  to-morrow !  Dream 
not  for  a  moment,  friend  of  Our  Mother,  that  the 


HIGH    DAYS   AND   HOLY   DAYS    119 

beautiful  French  picture-book  you  imported  can 
rouse  such  peals  of  laughter  as  the  darky  doll,  the 
Indian  doll,  and  the  cowboy  doll  that  rest  on  the 
three  tangerine  oranges  that  are  eaten  solemnly 
on  this  one  day  in  the  year !  Three  five-cent 
watches  with  fobs  and  chains,  three  rubber  balls, 
three  harmonicas,  go  into  those  stockings,  with  a 
fig  wrapped  in  paper  in  each  toe,  and  a  candy- 
cane  and  a  tin  trumpet  hanging  over  the  edge. 

Nobody  notices  the  boxes  when  we  start  off 
again,  just  as  nobody  has  the  least  idea  as  to  why 
we  stopped  in  front  of  the  Italian's  fruit  shop  on 
the  corner,  though  his  window  bristles  with  canes. 

At  luncheon  comes  the  question: 

"Will  you  dress  the  tree  --or  see  it?" 

They  hesitate,  glance  at  each  other. 

"Which  would  you  rather,  Secunda?"  Prima 
asks  doubtfully. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  -  -  be  surprised,  prob'ly." 

"Which  would  you,  Tertius?^' 

"Oh,  surprised,  I  s'pose." 

This  always  interests  Our  Mother.  What  teaches 
them  such  sophistication  ? 

"Which  would  you,  Pri?" 

"Oh,  I  think  I'd  like  to  decorate  it  up,  this  year 
—  no,  I  won't.  I'll  be  surprised,  too !" 


120  ON    OUR    HILL 

"Please  say,  'decorate  it,'  Prima;  not,  'decorate 
it  up.'" 

"Oh,  well,  decorate  it,  then.  But  that's  not 
half  so  nice,  Mother.  I  don't  mean  just  deco 
rated,  exactly;  I  mean,  all  decorated  up !" 

In  what  is  it  rooted,  that  insistent  demand  for 
the  preposition  ?  Will  it  ever  be  bred  out  of  chil 
dren  and  peasants?  Is  it  the  strongest  part  of 
speech,  after  all  —  dearer  than  the  adjective,  more 
binding  than  the  verb  ? 

Now  we  are  at  the  afternoon  of  Christmas  Eve. 
The  wreaths,  of  course,  are  not  nearly  enough, 
and  more  have  been  added  to  the  florists'  red 
carnation  order,  also  laurel  for  the  jar  at  the  head 
of  the  stairs.  A  boy  staggers  in  with  them  just 
in  time,  and  we  dash  about  with  our  mouths  full 
of  pins,  while  Tertius  carries  three  prickly  wreaths 
on  each  stiffly  outstretched  arm,  with  one  balanced 
on  his  fluffy,  just- washed  hair.  As  everybody 
who  passes  him  thus  adorned  is  forced  to  stop  and 
kiss  him,  and  as  somebody  is  always  passing  him, 
the  traffic  in  his  neighborhood  is  more  or  less  con 
gested  ! 

"Quick,  light  the  candles!  No,  I  will  not;  I 
simply  will  not  have  electric  lights !  If  somebody 
is  in  the  room  every  minute,  what  in  the  world 


HIGH    DAYS    AND    HOLY   DAYS     121 

can  happen  ?  Anyway,  I  won't  have  them  !"  (It 
is  extraordinary  how  exactly  like  other  women  all 
women  are,  at  one  time  or  another !) 

"Do  you  like  it,  darling?  Do  you  see  the  big 
star  ?  Where  is  the  paper  and  pencil  for  the  list  ? 
We  mustn't  get  those  New  Haven  presents  mixed 
again,  Miss  Paul !  Now,  Prima  is  to  read  out 
the  names,  and  Secunda  and  Tertius  may  carry 
them." 

It  is  all  red  ribbon  and  white  tissue-paper  from 
now  on.  Big,  handsome  presents  are  admired 
by  the  grown-ups,  and  foolish,  inexpensive  ones 
adored  by  the  children,  as  usual.  Our  Godmother 
sends  us  the  same  "Gulliver's  Travels"  and  "Swiss 
Family  Robinson,"  only  this  time  they  are  illus 
trated  by  an  entirely  new  and  costly  artist. 

"There's  four  Swiss  Families,"  says  Secunda 
stolidly.  "By  and  by  there'll  be  a  book-shelf  just 
for  the  Swiss  Families,  won't  there,  Muddy?" 

"Oh,  look  at  this  !  'For  my  dear  little  nephews 
and  nieces,  from  their  loving  Aunt.'  For  gracious' 
sake,  how  old  does  she  think  we  are?" 

A  woolly  rabbit,  a  top,  and  a  crocheted  doll 
emerge  from  a  red-and-white  box,  and  Prima 
sniffs  scornfully  at  the  doll  with  "Dear  little 
Prima"  dangling  from  its  knitted  jacket. 


ON    OUR    HILL 

"My  dear  child,  there  are  millions  and  dozens 
of  you  nieces.  How  can  she  remember?" 

"But  doesn't  she  understand  that  we  are  grow 
ing?"  asks  dear  little  Prima  coldly.  (She  weighs 
one  hundred  pounds.) 

"  That's  just  what  they  don't  do,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,"  Our  Mother  explains.  "They  just  remem 
ber  that  you're  children." 

"And  we  have  to  write  notes  for  them  !  I  don't 
think  it's  fair  !  Secunda,  you  may  write  for  these." 

"Oh,  no!     Let  Tertius  —  he  can,  this  year." 

"I'd  love  to  write  about  'em,"  says  Tertius 
earnestly.  "I'll  write  about  all  three.  I'll  take 
big  paper.  Do  I  know  her,  Mother?" 

'You'll  be  in  heaven  very  soon  if  you're  not 
careful,  you  know,"  Our  Mother  warns  him. 
"Haven't  you  any  faults,  Tertius?  You  don't 
want  to  be  an  angel,  do  you?" 

"Not  if  you  don't  like,"  he  answers  carefully. 

"Then  don't  act  like  one.  Bring  me  that  big 
present  under  the  calendar,  there.  It's  for  me." 

Prima  wriggles  consciously. 

"Oh,  my  darling,  wonderful  girl!" 

Really,  it  is  quite  wonderful.  It  is  just  like 
the  dress-hangers  you  see  in  Women's  Exchanges, 
all  stuffed  and  sweet-scented  and  covered  with 


HIGH    DAYS   AND   HOLY   DAYS    123 

blue-and-white  silk,  and  the  pattern  is  stencilled 
by  Priina  herself,  and  every  stitch  is  hers. 

"And  you  thought  my  lemonade-tray  was  good, 
too,  didn't  you?"  asks  Secunda. 

"Secunda,  dearest,  I  am  simply  knocked  speech 
less  by  the  lemonade-  tray  !" 

Mind  you,  the  child  sawed  it  out  with  a  saw, 
and  tacked  on  the  rim  and  made  holes  for  your 
hands  and  stained  it ! 

"And  my  ink-well?"  Tertius  begs. 

"It  makes  me  weep,"  says  Our  Mother,  and 
very  nearly  proves  it. 

The  infant  shaped  it  out  of  clay,  and  hollowed 
out  the  hole  for  the  ink  with  his  delicious,  soft 
little  thumb,  and  made  a  cover  with  a  knob  at 
the  top,  and  stained  it  green!  The  bottom  is 
signed  with  a  large  T,  just  the  way  Durer  signed 
his  things,  and  it  looks  like  Zuni  Indian  ware.  It 
shall  stand  in  the  cabinet  with  great-grandmother's 
sprigged  china  and  all  the  christening  porringers 
forever. 

The  presents  are  always  very  much  the  same, 
of  course.  Except  for  Our  Mother's,  who  always 
knows  what  we  really  want,  and  Our  Aunty's, 
who  always  finds  out,  the  great  fun  is  unwrapping 
them  and  reading  out  importantly  to  and  from 


124  ON    OUR    HILL 

whom  they  are.  Books  are  jolly,  but  if  they  are 
any  good  we  have  always  had  them;  and  people 
mostly  give  you  "Andersen's  Fairy  Tales,"  any 
way,  or  "Alice  in  Wonderland,"  which  in  any 
Christian  family  are  naturally  provided,  along 
with  your  board  and  lodging. 

"Have  you  got  that  list?     Did  you  put  down 
small  note-paper  and  that  speckled  frog  from  - 
oh,  no,  the  paper  cut-out  house  and  that  frog? 
.  .  .     Children,  what  came  with  that  frog?" 
'Those  three  sort  of  handkerchief -boxes." 

"Prima,  please  don't  say  'sort  of ' !" 

"Well,  what  can  I  say,  then?  You  can't  say 
'rather'  handkerchief -boxes,  can  you?" 

"Exactly.  And  that  shows  how  foolish  it  is. 
Either  they  are  handkerchief-boxes  or  they  are 
not." 

"That's  what  I  don't  know,"  Prima  cries  tri 
umphantly,  "and  that's  why  I  say  'sort  of.'  It's 
just  what  I  mean !" 

"We'll  go  down  now  and  sing,"  says  Our  Mother 
briefly. 

There  simply  is  no  choosing  among  Christmas 
hymns;  they  must  all  be  sung  every  night  during 
the  season. 

"It  came  upon  the  midnight  clear"  happens  to 


HIGH    DAYS   AND   HOLY   DAYS    125 

produce  the  greatest  number  of  thrills  per  bar  for 
Our  Mother,  but  "Little  town  of  Bethlehem," 
and  "Hark,  the  herald  angels,"  and  "Come,  all 
ye  faithful,"  have  their  devoted  partisans.  Can 
we  ever  forget  the  Christmas  when  Prima,  young 
and  innocent  then,  asked  to  sing  the  hymn  where 
they  take  the  Baby  Jesus  out  for  his  airing?  In 
vain  Our  Mother  sought  and  sought;  she  could 
think  of  no  such  sacred  melody. 

"Why,  it's  like  this  —  you  know  !"  Prima  cried 
impatiently  at  last,  and  chanted  respectfully: 

"Oh,  come,  let  us  outdoor  him, 
Oh,  come,  let  us  outdoor  him  ! " 

For  years  after  this  she  sang  it  that  way,  pur 
posely. 

For  just  as  scientists,  probing  into  that  great 
unknown,  our  common  daily  life,  proceed  by  in 
exorably  forcing  what  we  do  not  yet  know  into 
terms  of  what  we  do,  so  those  great  empiricists  of 
existence  whom  we  call  children  patch  out  pain 
fully  their  scheme  of  the  universe;  they  have  no 
other  way.  Do  you  realize  that  they  are  always 
doing  this,  every  hour  between  sunrise  and  sun 
set,  and  for  the  most  part  silently?  Only  now 
and  then  do  you  catch  through  the  trailing  clouds 


126  ON    OUR    HILL 

of  glory  that  mercifully  surround  their  swelling 
souls  some  tiny  ray  of  their  mental  processes,  and 
you  think  it  very  amusing.  But  if  you  stop  to 
consider  you  will  see  that  you  get  only  a  thou 
sandth  part  of  these  quaint  misconceptions  which, 
when  I  tell  you,  you  accuse  me  of  inventing ! 

Take  Tertius,  for  example,  and  his  earnest  re 
quest  for  the  "manual-training  hymn"  !  In  what 
index  shall  you  find  it  ?  But  use  your  fresh  ears, 
not  your  worn  brain,  and  you  will  see  that  he 
wishes  to  sing  that  delightful  minor  melody: 

"O  come,  O  come,  Emmanuel, 
And  ransom  captive  Israel! " 

It  is  foolish  to  accuse  me  of  inventing  these 
things.  My  brain  is  scribbled  all  over,  like  yours, 
with  the  complicated  connotations  of  English  let 
ters.  "Emmanuel"  has  to  me  no  remotest  con 
nection  with  "manual."  When  Tertius  tells  me 
that  his  favorite  character  in  fiction  is  "Cock 
Robinson  Crusoe,"  I  can  only  gasp  and  marvel  at 
him.  But  try  as  I  may,  I  cannot  produce  a  phrase 
like  it;  can  you?  One  man  could  —  an  English 
man,  of  the  race  that  we  delight  to  call  lacking  in 
a  sense  of  humor,  I  suppose  because  they  cannot 
understand  our  slang.  He  could  think  like  a 


HIGH    DAYS   AND   HOLY   DAYS     127 

child,  even  like  a  child  in  a  dream,  and  he  was 
a  professional  mathematician !  This  is  perhaps 
a  little  confusing.  .  .  . 

Our  stockings  are  hung  on  the  nursery  fire 
guard,  and  at  nine  o'clock  or  so  Our  Mother  goes 
in  and  fills  them.  Alas  for  the  Christmases  when 
Tertius's  stocking  was  a  tiny,  ten-inch  strip  of 
white !  It  is  like  anybody's  stocking  now  —  a  fig 
is  lost  in  the  toe,  and  the  largest  horn  sits  easily  in 
the  top. 

Heaven  knows  when  they  wake  —  before  dawn, 
probably  !  But  they  are  as  quiet  as  mice  —  much 
quieter  than  any  mice  Our  Mother  ever  heard,  be 
cause  mice  are  really  noisy.  They  must  always 
come  down-stairs  and  pass  Our  Mother's  door  in 
bedroom  slippers  or  stockings,  and  this  is  one  of 
the  rules  that  endear  them  to  guests. 

From  now  on  things  move  feverishly. 

An  hour  or  so  after  breakfast  for  the  tree  toys, 
a  wild  dash  for  church  (we  must  walk  the  two 
miles  and  a  half,  for  the  pony  went  to  midnight 
mass,  the  old  mare  to  nine  o'clock,  and  it  is  too 
muddy  for  the  car)  after  our  own  short  service,  a 
fascinating  peep  at  the  Christmas  manger  in  the 
Catholic  Church,  where  the  camels  and  Joseph 
and  the  Star  are  all  wonderfully  real,  and  we 


128  ON    OUR    HILL 

hurry  home  to  goose  and  a  pudding  with  an  egg 
shell  full  of  alcohol  flaming  on  its  top. 

No  time  for  a  nap,  now  —  or,  well,  on  second 
thoughts,  a  short  one,  for  Secunda  gets  a  little 
intolerant  without  any  break  in  her  activities. 
The  tree  must  be  filled  again  for  the  children  in 
the  stable  and  the  cottage,  and  the  gardener  has 
three  babies  this  year.  Each  child  gets  one  new 
toy,  and  then  there  are  always  left-overs  and 
mended  things  and  outgrown  amusements  that 
give  quite  as  much  pleasure  the  second  time  as 
they  did  the  first.  Then  there  are  the  gold  pieces 
in  little  envelopes  (Tertius  presents  them),  and 
fresh  candles  to  light  (Secunda  collects  them  from 
all  over  the  house),  and  they  stand  among  the 
hemlock  wreaths  on  top  of  the  bookcase  in  the 
big  billiard-room. 

Now  the  children  are  here,  with  a  last-minute 
guest  of  the  gardener's  family,  for  whom  Prima 
performs  miracles  of  rearrangement,  without  hurt 
ing  anybody's  feelings.  In  such  a  crisis  Prima's 
calm  decision  is  invaluable.  Now  the  cook  comes 
panting  up  the  stairs,  and  shows  a  gratifying  ap 
preciation  of  the  tree;  now  cottage  and  stable  re 
turn  polite  thanks  for  their  Christmas  hams;  now 
shy  Hungarians  and  brisk  cockneys  lean  together 


>.  • 


HIGH   DAYS   AND   HOLY   DAYS    129 

over  American  electric  railways;  now  Tertius 
spreads  a  courtly  chair  for  the  chambermaid,  and 
Secunda  brings  a  footstool  for  the  laundress. 
Count  Tolstoy  would  have  doted  upon  Our 
Family ! 

Here  is  the  custard  and  the  frosted  cake  !  They 
gather  round  the  billiard-table  and  eat  it  eagerly, 
dressed  in  red-paper  caps  from  snapping  mottoes. 
By  this  time  it  is  very  gay.  The  winking  candles 
are  soft  on  their  faces.  Looking  at  Our  Family's 
blond  and  powerful  bulk,  it  is  hard  to  believe  that 
the  swarthy  generations  of  Central  Europe  are 
likely  to  overwhelm  us  ...  and  yet,  will  it  be  a 
question  of  man  for  man?  There  is  the  trouble, 
you  see.  Just  at  present  Our  Mother  is  even 
with  the  gardener's  wife,  but  there  are  those  who 
think  Our  Family  large  —  and  the  gardener's  wife 
has  only  just  begun ! 

The  little  guest  from  over  the  stable  finds  our 
treat  too  simple;  and  one  of  the  cottage  children 
cannot  eat  milk.  Our  Family  thriftily  eats  both 
portions,  and  the  party  closes,  having  been,  on  the 
whole,  a  success. 

There  is  one  satisfying  thing  about  the  hymns 
for  Easter:  they  rolf  out  "Alleluia,"  with  plenty 
of  that  liturgical  monotony  so  dear  to  childhood. 


130  ON    OUR    HILL 

"A-a-a-a-a-a-le-lu-u-ia!"  chants  Tertius  lustily; 
everybody  turns  and  smiles  at  him.  The  person 
(a  male,  beyond  doubt)  who  ranked  pride  among 
the  deadly  sins  could  never  have  been  the  mother 
of  Tertius ! 

This  year  there  was  a  terrible  panic  about  the 
eggs;  they  were  supposed  to  have  been  dyed  with 
dye  that  comes  in  packages  —  and  at  the  last  mo 
ment  there  was  no  dye  !  But,  mercifully,  the  cook 
was  Irish,  and  she  and  Our  Mother  took  a  little 
bluing  and  a  little  cochineal  and  a  little  green  and 
raspberry  coloring  (it  comes  in  weeny  bottles,  for 
fancy  afternoon  cakes) ;  and  Our  Mother  drew  out 
of  her  rag-bag  of  a  mind  the  fact  that  if  you  boil 
eggs  in  onion  skins  they  turn  out  a  rich  brown: 
and  Our  Governess  etched  the  most  wonderful 
rabbits  and  chickens  in  sepia  on  six  special  eggs; 
and  we  wrapped  some  in  waxed  paper  and  then 
stencilled  initials  on  them. 

Then  there  were  four  or  five  bought  ones  that 
open,  full  of  sweets,  and  three  incredible  life-size 
ones,  solid  chocolate;  and  Secunda's  Godmother, 
who  can  only  be  compared  with  the  Godmothers 
of  the  fairy-tales,  had  sent  a  rare  and  gorgeous 
hen  nested  on  almond  and  jujube  eggs;  and  Prima's 
Godmother,  who  has  the  most  delicious  fancies, 


HIGH   DAYS   AND    HOLY   DAYS    131 

had  risked  through  the  express  company  three 
tiny  glass  motor-cars,  driven  by  rabbit  chauffeurs, 
with  barley-sugar  in  the  tonneaux. 

Our  Mother's  part  is  always  the  same:  she  pro 
vides  the  nests  (they  are  the  round,  woven  baskets 
figs  come  in)  and  the  guardian  bunnies.  They 
are  in  three  sizes.  Anybody  can  keep  the  tiny 
ones;  the  middle  size  is  better  left  for  Secunda, 
unless  she  is  pretty  well  ahead;  but  the  larger  are 
sacred  to  Tertius,  and  stand,  paws  up,  in  what 
some  might  consider  exposed  places. 

Our  Mother  dashes  out  during  nap-time  and 
stumbling  excitedly  over  rocks  and  among  the 
stumps  of  trees,  lays  the  baskets  in  cunningly 
selected  nooks. 

From  time  to  time  her  heart  fails  her. 

"Oh,  that's  far  too  hard!"  she  mutters.  "He 
could  never  find  that !"  And  she  stands  a  brown 
ear-pricked  bunny  in  the  centre  of  the  lawn,  with 
a  bright  magenta  egg  flaming  from  his  basket ! 
Then  she  sees  in  fancy  Prirna's  scornful  eyebrows, 
and  weakly  moves  it  into  the  hollow  where  the 
tether-ball  post  stood.  Then  she  walks  a  few 
paces  off,  sets  her  jaw,  and  fills  up  the  bottom 
with  stones.  A  mother  is  indeed  a  feeble-minded 
work  of  God;  perhaps  that  is  why  hens  and  cows 


132  ON    OUR    HILL 

—  neither  of  them  remarkable  for  brain  power  - 
make  such  good  ones. 

Of  course  you  will  perceive  that  the  problem 
before  us  is  so  to  arrange  the  nests  that  each  per 
son  shall  find  approximately  the  same  number, 
gaining  the  same  proportion  of  plain  and  fancy 
eggs,  allowing  Secunda  to  find  Godmother's  (with 
any  kind  of  verisimilitude),  assuring  Tertius  of 
his  own  initial,  and  last,  but  far  from  least,  en 
abling  Our  Mother  to  remember  where  she  hid 
them ! 

Shall  we  ever  forget  the  day  when,  Easter  being 
stormy,  the  hunt  took  place  in  the  house,  and 
when  the  tumult  and  the  shouting,  as  the  poem 
puts  it  so  neatly,  had  died,  nobody,  guests  in 
cluded,  could  find  the  finest  chocolate  egg  of  all? 
Our  Mother  hunted  that  egg  in  frenzied  night 
mares  for  a  week ! 

"But,  if  you  put  it  somewhere,  I  should  think 
you  could  find  it,"  Prima  would  say,  like  a  Greek 
chorus.  One  sees  how  Electra  and  Iphigenia  and 
the  other  fate-driven  principals  must  have  gritted 
their  teeth  at  that  chorus ! 

Weeks  and  weeks  afterward  it  appeared  to  our 
long-blinded  eyes,  poised  in  plain  sight,  far  above 
eye-level,  on  top  of  a  deep-framed  mirror. 


HIGH    DAYS    AND    HOLY    DAYS    133 

Now  they  come  out  with  warning  yells,  and 
stalk  like  head-hunters  among  the  dead  leaves  of 
winter  and  the  fallen  trees  the  gardener  hasn't 
"got  round  to,  yet." 

"Here!  Oh,  there,  Secunda  !  Hush!  Don't  show 
him.  Look  around,  Tertius !  Oh,  see  that  won 
derful,  wonderful  —  !  Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you, 
Mother  !  I  know  you  thought  of  that !" 

"I've  got  three,  and  two  rabbits  !"  Tertius  puffs. 
"Oh,  wait,  wait!  Don't  see  that  one,  'Cunda ! 
I  see  it  first !  He's  just  behind  that  stone.  Oh, 
it's  choc'lat!" 

"I  have  nothing  but  green.  Give  me  a  red  for 
a  green,  Tertius,  will  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  Secunda,  don't  ask  him  that.  I  say 
we  don't  change  at  all.  I  make  it  a  rule." 

"Oh,  no  -  -  oh,  well,  all  right.  I'll  just  collect 
greens,  then.  Maybe  I'll  get  them  all,"  says  Se 
cunda  contentedly. 

"If  anybody  offers  you  a  thousand  dollars  for 
your  disposition,  darling,  don't  take  it,"  Our 
Mother  suggests.  "You'll  find  it  awfully  useful." 

"Alleluia!  I've  got  a  split  one,  full  of  gum- 
drops  !"  crows  Tertius  —  and  everybody,  of  course, 
does  the  usual  thing  to  him. 

"You  darling  rabbit !"  coos  Our  Mother.     "You 


134  ONOURHILL 

precious  bunny!"  She  has  no  more  superlative 
title.  If  she  has  never  called  you  her  rabbit,  she 
has  never  really  loved  you ! 

"How  many  had  we,  Miss  Paul  ?  Three  dozen  ? 
No,  four?" 

"I  think  there  were  thirty-nine,  but  of  course 
that  isn't  counting  those  colored  papier-mache 
ones.  Baby,  have  you  any  with  pictures?" 

"My  rabbit  stepped  on  this  one,  I  pretty  nearly 
think,"  he  tells  us  solemnly.  "It  was  this  way 
when  I  saw  it  -  -  really !" 

"Oh,  Tertius,  that's  not  a  live " 

"Be  quiet,  Prima,  instantly!" 

Curiously  enough,  Our  Mother  is  angry.  Oh, 
but  really  angry.  There  is  a  strange,  cold  edge  to 
her  voice  that  chills  everybody.  Nobody  can 
make  you  so  happy  as  Our  Mother,  but  nobody 
can  make  you  so  uncomfortable. 

"Because  you  have  no  imagination  yourself, 
Prima,  must  you  interfere  with  the  pleasure  of 
people  who  have?  I'd  rather  you  went  into  the 
house." 

Prima's  lip  quivers,  but  she  bites  it,  and  walks 
like  a  drum-major  into  the  house.  I  am  sorry, 
but  these  shades  of  the  prison-house  close  over  us 
sometimes,  often  when  Our  Mother  has  been  hap- 


HIGH  D;AYS  AND  HOLY  DAYS  125 

piest  in  our  happiness.  She  is  the  least  little  bit 
like  one  of  those  star-filled  sky-rockets  —  the 
higher  she  shoots,  the  farther  she  has  to  fall.  Re 
member  her  gently,  O  blessed  Three !  —  it  is  not 
of  the  Lord  alone  that  it  can  be  said,  "whom  he 
loveth  he  chasteneth!" 

And  when  we  all  go  in  later  and  cut  the  choco 
late  egg  to  eat  with  our  tea,  she  kisses  Prima  and 
cuddles  her,  and  explains,  in  the  most  beautiful 
English,  what  she  meant  —  which  the  Lord  doesn't 
by  any  means  always  do. 

Dear  Prima !  When  she  stands  by  Our  Mother, 
a  debutante  with  a  bouquet,  will  she  remember 
her  first  evening  party?  It  was  a  Hallowe'en 
party,  at  Our  School,  and  Prima  was  a  blonde  and 
blooming  witch,  an  absurd  and  dimpled  witch, 
with  two  holes  where  her  top-front-middle  teeth 
should  have  been,  and  a  mop  of  red-blond  hair 
no  fillet  could  restrain.  She  had  a  long  black  mus 
lin  robe,  covered  with  white  cats  —  wonderful 
cats,  cats  Our  Governess  made  —  and  a  high- 
pointed  black  hat  that  Our  Mother  invented  out 
of  stiff  dress-lining,  and  a  crutch  with  a  black  cat 
on  it.  She  carried  a  funny  little  joke-pillow  that 
cried  like  a  cat  when  you  sat  on  it,  and  she  stayed 
till  nine  o'clock,  and  ate  ice-cream  and  lemonade. 


136  ON    OUR    HILL 

Miss  Paul  had  to  sit  up  for  her.  (I  hope  she  will 
forget  that  she  was  indisposed  in  the  night !) 

We  had  a  jack-o'-lantern  for  the  nursery-table 
and  Godmother  sent  us  witch  hats  and  broom 
sticks,  and  Secunda  danced  the  Highland  fling  for 
us,  as  a  special  treat. 

But  we  all  felt  a  little  nervous  and  edgy,  for  we 
realized  that  Prima  had  detached  herself  from  our 
little  landlocked  flotilla,  and  was  headed  for  the 
open  water  —  a  lonely,  little  white-sailed  adven 
turer.  Our  simple,  nursery  holidays  had  suffered 
a  sea  change ! 

And  Our  Mother,  in  one  horrid  dramatic  mo 
ment,  lived  the  hour  when  Prima  would  be  start 
ing  for  a  symphony  concert,  and  Secunda  would 
be  starting  for  a  dance,  and  Tertius  would  be 
starting  for  a  class  supper,  and  for  what  would 
she  be  starting? 

Her  grave  ?  Oh,  well,  hardly !  Our  Mother 
has  inherited  a  good  constitution.  She  sniffed. 

Her  bed?  But  that  would  be  worse,  almost, 
in  the  circumstances  under  consideration.  She 
pouted. 

Then,  the  only  objection  to  Our  Mother's 
starting  for  any  one  of  the  first  three  points  men 
tioned  would  be  her  inability  to  arrive  at  the 


HIGH    DAYS    AND    HOLY    DAYS     137 

other  two  simultaneously.  Candor  compels  her 
to  remind  herself  that  she  will  probably  start  for 
the  concert  with  Prima,  go  on  to  Secunda's  dance, 
and  end  by  making  a  speech  to  Tertius's  class 
mates  some  time  before  breakfast. 

"It's  no  use  being  sentimental,  like  a  person  in 
a  book,"  says  Our  Mother  briskly.  "Let's  all  go 
with  Prima  next  year  —  what?" 

We  agree  with  mad  enthusiasm.  An  unbroken 
phalanx,  Our  Family  shall  still  confront  the  holi 
days  ! 


A    YEAR    OF    COUSIN    QUARTUS 


ET  EGO  IN  ARCADIA  .  .  . 

HOW  will  you  talk  of  them,  these  vanished  years, 
When,  old  and  wise,  you  sit  about  the  fire, 
Exchanging  memories? 

Two  ancient  men, 

Who  have  wed,  begotten,  laid  awa^  their  dead, 
Will  they  remember  the  pigs,  a-grunt  in  the  mud, 
Whose  backs  they  scratched  behind  the  tennis-court? 
Two  withered  dames,  soft-chaired  before  their  tea, 
Will  they  recall  the  pony's  prancing  fury, 
The  bow-and-arrows  hidden  under  the  rocks? 
Or  will  they  prate  forced  marches,  early-to-bed, 
No  sugar  on  the  porridge,  French  at  meals? 

I  cannot  know.     My  heart  that  beat  for  you, 
Ere  that  you  knew  this  world,  will  have  fall'n  to  dust, 
Red  clay  for  the  Potter  when  he  moulds  again. 
I  shall  not  be. 

Oh,  Children  that  I  loved, 
Remember  gently  all  those  gentle  years, 
For  you  were  happy  in  them !     Stretch  your  hands 
At  whiles  across  the  gulf  of  now-a-days, 
And  clasp  the  hands  that  held  your  hands  before, 
When  hands  were  small  and  hearts  were  young  together ! 


A    YEAR    OF    COUSIN    QUARTUS 

TT  seemed  hardly  possible,  when  the  year  was 
A  over,  that  he  had  come  and  gone;  that  the  red 
autumn  and  the  white  winter  and  the  green  spring 
had  peeped,  in  turn,  over  the  waiting  edge  of  Our 
Hill,  pretended  to  come  for  good,  retreated,  ap 
peared  again,  possessed  us,  melted  imperceptibly 
away,  and  swung  around  again  to  summer-time ! 

And  yet  it  was  true.  We  were  all  one  year 
older.  Prima  was  doing  percentage  in  the  yellow 
arithmetic  book;  Secunda  was  promoted  to  two 
half -hour  practice  periods  a  day;  Tertius,  that 
thrice-blessed  infant,  was  supposed  to  be  capable 
of  assuming  the  responsibility  of  Dicky,  the  long- 
suffering  canary  —  spilling  a  spiral  trail  of  bird 
seed  between  the  nursery  and  the  children's  bath 
room  every  Saturday  morning  —  when  Cousin 
Quartus  left  us;  and  none  of  these  things  was  so 
when  he  came. 

But  of  all  the  changes  none  is  comparable  to 
that  which  took  place  in  Our  Cousin  himself. 
Shall  we  ever  forget  him,  as  he  first  appeared  to 
our  astonished  eyes?  It  was  a  Fourth  of  July 


143 


144  ON    OUR    HILL 

week-end,  and  our  guests  were  enjoying  their  after- 
tea  cigarettes,  idle,  relaxed,  ready  for  anything. 
Prima,  Secunda,  and  Tertius  were  pottering  about 
vaguely,  listening,  behind  a  mask  of  infantile  pre 
occupation,  to  grown-up  sentences  they  would 
bring  out  afterward  with  immense  effect,  hopeful 
of  avoiding  that  sickening  hour  of  half  past  six, 
when  Fate  withdraws  the  young  person,  no  matter 
how  well-behaved  and  charming,  from  the  level 
of  the  drawing-room. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  whir,  a  grind  of  brakes,  a 
throb  that  ceased  at  the  door.  The  door  itself 
was  flung  wide  and  there  stood  in  the  hall  before 
us  a  very  little  boy  we  had  never  seen  before. 
Two  large,  soft,  dark  eyes  beamed  mildly  out  of 
his  pointed  face,  a  round  cap  much  too  large  for 
him  drooped  over  his  ears.  His  stiff,  straight  hair 
was  cropped -- distressingly,  to  Our  Mother's 
eyes  —  like  an  older  urchin's.  His  face  was  one 
that  should  have  emerged,  curly-haired  and  lace- 
collared,  above  a  velvet  coat;  one  of  his  thin  little 
hands  should  have  rested  on  a  deerhound's  head. 
Sir  Joshua  would  have  painted  him  as  the  "Boy 
in  Brown." 

But  instead  of  Sir  Joshua's  velvet  and  point- 
lace,  a  stiff  shirt-waist,  much  too  large  for  his  tiny 


COUSIN    QUARTUS  145 

shoulders,  gave  a  strange,  elderly  air  to  his  little 
body,  and  flopping  khaki  knickerbockers,  big 
enough  for  a  Boy  Scout,  ballooned  above  his  pipe- 
stem  ankles,  with  a  curious  Dutch  effect.  In  his 
hand  he  carried  a  diminutive  suitcase,  and  it  is 
thus  that  he  will  be  forever  caparisoned  in  Our 
Mother's  photographic  memory.  Verily,  if  Our 
Cousin  grows  —  and  he  may  quite  possibly  grow 
-  into  an  adult  so  distinguished  that  future  gen 
erations  shall  gaze  with  awe  upon  his  statue  in 
some  park,  the  marble  hand  grasping  the  model 
of  the  great  machine  which  made  him  famous  in 
his  country's  annals,  Our  Mother,  reverently 
viewing  the  monument,  will  never  see  anything 
in  that  marble  grasp  but  a  little  wicker  suitcase ! 

Crooked  under  one  thin  arm  he  held  a  book, 
and  advancing  to  Our  Mother,  standing  amazed 
in  the  hall,  he  presented  the  volume  to  her  gravely, 
announcing  with  the  composure  of  an  after-dinner 
speaker  at  a  public  banquet: 

"How  do  you  do,  Aunt  Josephine?  I  am 
Quartus.  I  am  reading  'The  Wind  in  the  Wil 
lows,'  and  I  have  forgotten  my  Russian  oil !" 

At  this  the  guests  coughed  and  ran  like  rabbits 
into  different  rooms,  and  the  three  children  sat 
down  backward  violently  and  stared  !  Our  Mother 


146 


ON    OUR    HILL 


took  the  book  mechanically  and  held  out  one  hand 
for  the  suitcase,  which  was  not  relinquished. 
"Why,  Quartus,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you!" 
she  gasped.     "Only  I  didn't  ex- 
^HB^         Pect  you  till  next  week.     What 
do  you  do  with  the  oil?" 

"I  eat  it.  I  must  have  it  every 
day,  and  you  will  have  to  send  to 
Boston.  Which  of  these  children 
is  Secunda?  The  fat  one?" 

"No,  the  middle-sized  one," 
Our  Mother  murmured  mechan 
ically.  "But  we  can't  have  you 
eating  Russian  oil  every  day, 
Quartus,  dear.  That's  dreadful ! 
We  don't  take  medicine  here." 

"But  7  do,"  said  Quartus  firm 
ly.  "The  boy,  I  know,  is  Ter- 
tius.  He's  quite  big,  isn't  he? 
All  these  children  are  big.  I  am 
very  tall,  myself.  My  daddy  is 
tall.  He  is  in  the  navy.  This  is 
my  ulster.  My  hair-brushes  are  in  my  bag.  I 
have  a  mechanical  toy  in  my  trunk.  It  is  called 
the  E-rec-tor.  I  will  explain  it  to  you.  It  can 
lift  a  weight  of  a  hundred  pounds,  it  says,  when 


Tertius 


COUSIN    QUARTUS 


147 


it  is  built.     Do  you  think  it  will  ?     First  you  take 
the  electric  battery  and  attach  it  - 

Fascinated,  Our  Family  stared  at  him.  Fas 
cinated,  the  visitors  crept  back 
and  stood  in  the  doors,  listen 
ing.  The  chauffeur  stood  like 
the  Wedding  Guest  —  he  could 
not  choose  but  hear  !  The  par 
lor-maid,  rooted  to  the  spot, 
checked  like  a  pointer.  Our 
Mother,  usually  as  rapid  in  ac 
tion  as  a  Gatling  gun,  wavered 
helplessly,  to  the  intense  de 
light  of  everybody.  All  per 
ceived  that  she,  too,  was  hyp 
notized;  that  she  had  failed  in 
her  effort  to  get  the  suitcase; 
that  she,  who  loathed  mechan 
ical  toys  as  she  loathed  lectur 
ing  children,  was  now  to  listen 
to  a  child  placidly  lecturing  on 
a  mechanical  toy ! 

'Then  you  take  the  coupling-pins  and  secure 
them  firmly  to  the  main  bars  - 

Oh,  that  voice  of  Cousin  Quartus !     High  and 
shrill,  nasal  to  a  point  never  yet  reached  even  in 


Cousin  Quartus 


148  ON     OUR     HILL 

that  quintessence  of  New  England,  his  ancestral 
tree,  penetrating  to  the  farthest  recesses  of  the 
house,  didactic,  inescapable,  unquenchable !  Un 
believably  drawling,  withal,  so  that  each  syllable, 
to  be  properly  represented  on  paper,  should  occupy 
twice  its  length  in  vowels.  The  voice  of  Cousin 
Quartus  was  a  perfectly  unique  sound. 

But  now  Our  Mother  rallied  bravely  and  de 
tached  her  will  by  a  supreme  effort. 

"I  think  we  will  come  up-stairs,  now,"  she  said 
with  firmness.  "Give  Lena  your  suitcase,  Quar 
tus.  Now,  children  we  will  show  Cousin  Quartus 
the  nursery." 

"And  I  will  tell  you  about  the  connecting-pins, 
as  we  go,"  said  Cousin  Quartus  placidly.  "It  is 
very  in-ter-es-ting.  I  have  explained  it  to  a  good 
many  people.  What  wide  stairs  these  are!  I 
see  there  is  no  carpet  on  them.  On  all  the  stairs 
where  I  have  been  there  has  always  been  carpet. 
Did  you  understand  about  the  E-rec-tor,  as  far 
as  I  had  gone?" 

"And  what  will  she  do  about  that?"  the  guests 
inquired  gleefully. 

Even  so  the  surrounding  populace  smile  doubt 
fully  at  some  expert  lion-tamer,  as  he  follows  a 
recent  acquisition  into  the  cage ! 


COUSIN    QUARTUS  149 

But  it  was  all  very  simple,  really.  Our  Cousin's 
was  a  sweet  little  nature,  docile  and  biddable.  It 
was  not  his  fault  that  his  lightest  utterance  had 
been  eagerly  received  by  adults,  who  had  laughed 
consumedly  at  his  pompous  little  jokes,  listened 
reverently  to  his  polysyllabic  lectures,  quoted  his 
wise  sayings  --  which  were  not  so  very  wise,  after 
all  -  -  under  his  observant  little  nose.  A  houseful 
of  small  people  of  his  own  age  presented  a  cynical 
front  to  his  somewhat  long-winded  philosophical 
assaults  on  their  patience.  Adults,  so  unaccus 
tomed  to  infantile  monologues  as  to  find  them 
frankly  impossible,  exhumed  from  his  ancestral 
New  England  maxims  that  precious  epigram  which 
encourages  children  to  be  seen  and  not  heard. 
Porridge  and  bread-and-butter  and  rice  pudding 
loomed  large  on  his  hitherto  varied  bill  of  fare, 
and  early  to  bed  soothed  his  nerves  beyond  belief. 

Our  Mother  hid  the  deforming  khaki  bloomers 
in  a  trunk,  and  Our  Barber  in  the  village  trimmed 
the  thatch  of  hair  that  soon  fell  over  his  ears  into 
a  "Dutch  cut";  so  that  when  he  came  down  the 
stairs,  hand  in  hand  with  Tertius,  of  a  Sunday 
noon,  in  a  short-waisted,  big-buttoned  suit  like 
the  children  who  used  to  romp  through  the  Kate 
Greenaway  books,  the  guests  accused  Our  Mother 


150  ON    OUR    HILL 

of  importing  him  for  purely  decorative  purposes, 
and  appreciative  artists  wanted  to  paint  his  pic 
ture  ! 

Tertius  adopted  him  instantly,  and  the  pair  be 
came  inseparable.  After  all,  a  little  boy  is  a  little 
boy,  and  Tertius  had  always  been  a  sort  of  beau 
tiful  pendant  to  the  two  sisters;  now  he  had  a 
natural  mate. 

"It's  really  a  very  good  thing  for  your  little 
boy,  isn't  it?"  people  said. 

"You  ought  to  have  another,  you  know,  yourself. 
Anybody  who  can  have  children  like  that.  ..." 

It  is  most  extraordinary  how  persons  who 
would  never  dream  of  suggesting  new  methods  of 
arranging  one's  hair,  for  instance,  or  a  different 
color  scheme  for  the  garden,  have  no  hesitation 
in  advising  one  to  increase  one's  family !  But  so 
it  is. 

For  a  long  time  Our  Cousin  kept,  perforce,  his 
sedentary  habits,  and  lay  mooning  over  a  book 
in  a  long  chair  on  the  upper  veranda,  while  below 
him  the  old  Gloucester  hammock  rocked,  a  pirate 
sloop,  in  terrific  gales  (Secunda  did  the  howling  of 
the  wind  and  Prima  shrieked  desperate  orders 
through  an  old  megaphone  to  Tertius,  the  bustling 
and  obedient  crew),  or  the  rattling  roar  of  their 


IP? 

;'     \\v'  ••- 


m 


t- 


n-- 


'& 


I 


I 


COUSIN    QUARTUS  153 

roller-skates  on  the  concrete  floor  deafened  all 
thought  on  the  part  of  anybody  who  might  be  on 
the  upper  level.  Anybody,  that  is,  but  Our 
Mother,  who  never  notices  anything  but  whining 
or  bullying. 

For  a  long  time  Our  Cousin  could  hardly  walk 
without  fatigue  to  the  bottom  of  Our  Hill,  greatly 
to  the  bewilderment  of  Tertius,  whose  fat,  dimpled 
legs  had  measured  the  distance  to  the  village  and 
back,  a  good  four  miles  and  a  half,  when  four  and 
a  half  was  the  measure  of  his  years. 

"Oh,  come  on,  Quart!  Come  on  around  the 
Triangle!"  Secunda  would  urge  him  impatiently. 
"  Don't  flop  around  on  your  stomach  all  day !" 

"I'd  rather  read,"  Cousin  Quartus  would  reply 
imperturbably.  "This  is  a  ve-ry  in-ter-est-ing 
book,  Secunda;  it  is  called  'The  Wind  in  the  Wil 
lows.'  Have  you  read  it?" 

"Mercy,  I've  read  it  long  ago!  Haven't  you 
finished  it  yet?" 

:'Ye-es,  but  I'm  reading  it  aga-ain." 

This  went  on  for  a  month,  till  one  day  Our 
Mother,  ostensibly  making  out  a  shopping-list  on 
the  veranda,  but  in  reality  gazing  dreamily  at 
Our  View,  which  has  never  fully  discovered  its 
loveliness  to  us  after  all  these  years,  happened  to 


154  ON     OUR     HILL 

lower  her  eyes  to  Cousin  Quartus  and  his  book. 
He  was  just  finishing  the  last  page,  and  as  she 
watched  him  he  flapped  it  over,  turned  back  to 
the  beginning,  and  fell  upon  the  first  chapter  with 
the  same  placid  interest. 

"Quartus,"   said  Our  Mother  abruptly,   "how 
many  times  have  you  read  that  book?" 

Oh,   I    do-on't    kno-ow.     Seven    or    eight,    I 


"u 

99 


guess 

"I  think  — I  believe." 

"I  think  —  I  believe.  I  like  it.  It  is  very 
in-ter-est-ing.  Have  you  read  it?" 

"Yes,  I  have.  But  I  am  getting  frightfully 
tired  of  seeing  you  read  it.  Suppose  you  stop  it !" 

"  We-ell.     But  what  shall  I  read  ? " 

"Go  in  to  the  children's  book-shelves  and  pick 
something  out.  Anything.  And  bring  that  book 
to  me." 

Our  Cousin  disentangled  himself  carefully  from 
the  chair  and  retreated  to  the  library.  Our  Guest 
marvelled. 

"I  don't  understand  your  methods  with  chil 
dren  at  all.  You  seem  to  keep  your  hands  oft'  so 
much  —  it's  really  quite  amazing  how  you  do 
that !  —  and  then  suddenly  you  jump  in  and  do 
an  arbitrary  thing  like  that!  If  the  child  likes 


COUSIN    QUARTUS  155 

the  book  (and  really,  it  shows  a  remarkable  men 
tal  development  to  pick  out  a  book  like  that;  it 
wasn't  written  at  all  for  children!),  why  not  let 
him  ?  What  is  your  idea  ?  " 

"I  never  thought  he  picked  that  book  out,  my 
self,"  Our  Mother  replies.  "Watch  what  he  does 
pick  out.  I  don't  think  he  is  reading,  at  all.  At 
least,  not  what  I  mean  by  reading.  If  it  was  the 
Bible  and  he  was  Abraham  Lincoln  .  .  .  but  it  isn't 
and  he  isn't.  If  he  kept  it  up  much  longer,  he 
ought  to  be  in  an  insane  asylum,  and  I  should  be  !" 

After  a  certain  interval  Cousin  Quartus  emerges 
from  the  library  with  a  large,  flat,  thin  volume 
under  his  blue-striped  arm.  His  big  brown  eyes 
are  dancing  with  laughter. 

"I  have  found  a  lo-ovely  book,  Aunt  Jo-oseph- 
ine,"  he  cries.  "It  is  ve-ry  in-ter-est-ing.  Would 
you  like  me  to  read  it  to  you?" 

"Pray  do,"  says  Our  Mother. 

And  he  begins  with  many  happy  giggles: 

"Said  the  chicken  to  the  duck, 
'Madam,  I  admire  your  pluck. 
Dive  into  the  brook  like  you, 
Chicky  would  not  dare  to  do. 
If  I  stood  upon  my  head 
In  the  water,  I'd  be  dead!'1' 


156  ON     OUR     HILL 

"Quite  so,"  says  Our  Mother  dryly. 

"If  I  stood  upon  my  head 
In  the  water,  I'd  be  dead !" 

carols  Cousin  Quartus.  "And  so  he  would, 
wouldn't  he?  That's  ve-ry  funny,  isn't  it,  Aunt 
Jo-osephine  ?  '  If  I  stood  upon  my  head  - 

"I  think  we've  got  the  idea  perfectly  by  now," 
says  Our  Mother.  "Just  read  the  rest  to  your 
self,  dear  boy." 

"Well,  well!"  says  Our  Guest. 

"That  book  should  have  been  weeded  out  long 
ago,"  Our  Mother  explains.  "Somebody  sent  it 
for  Christmas.  But  the  children  like  to  color  the 
pictures  with  crayons." 

"But  how  did  you  know  all  this?"  the  Guest 
queries. 

"Oh,  I  just  felt  it,  somehow,"  says  Our  Mother. 
"What  was  the  sense,  you  know?  Seven  or  eight 
times !  And,  if  you  really  want  it  analyzed,  I 
expect  it  was  this  way:  he  never  quoted  from  the 
book.  Tertius  has  had  'Alice  in  Wonderland'  for 
a  bed  book  all  this  year,  and  Secunda  did  last  year. 
They  know  it  by  heart.  They  apply  it,  in  the 
neatest  way,  to  all  the  crises  of  life  —  the  way  any 
body  does  with  'Alice.'  'Off  with  his  head !'  Se- 


COUSIN    QUARTUS  157 

cunda  will  say,  if  anybody  displeases  her,  and  they 
told  me  Prima  was  exactly  like  the  White  Queen: 
she  cried  before  the  thing  happened !  But  Quar- 
tus  never  mentioned  his  book.  It  was  just  a  habit 
with  him  —  like  smoking." 

How  did  the  change  begin  in  him?  It  was  no 
more  visible  to  the  ordinary  eye  than  the  budding 
of  a  leaf  or  the  growing  stiffness  of  a  puppy's  paws. 

But  suddenly  he  was  running  across  the  lawn; 
all  at  once  he  hopped  up  and  down,  for  no  reason 
at  all,  when  not  otherwise  engaged.  If  Tertius 
issued  an  absent-minded  command  and  turned 
away,  it  was  not  necessarily  carried  out,  and  when 
he  turned  to  correct  Quartus,  Quartus  kicked  him 
and  tussled  violently.  He  still  burst  into  ner 
vous,  squeaky  tears;  he  scratched  wickedly,  like  a 
squirming  kitten;  he  roamed  off  by  himself  and 
played  solitary  games,  with  no  exigence  of  team 
work.  But  he  did  all  these  things  less  and  less, 
and  by  winter-time  Prima,  with  his  help,  could 
down  the  other  two  and  yet  feel  that  the  contest 
had  been  an  equal  one. 

On  his  little  sled  he  flew  fast  and  far,  and  his 
steering  was  at  times  admittedly  brilliant.  While 
the  girls  were  at  school  he  and  Tertius  played  and 
played  and  played.  Tertius  could  not  sit  still, 


158  ON     OUR    HILL 

and  though  Quartus  would  have  liked  to,  there 
are  no  warm  corners  on  Our  Hill,  and  one  has  to 
keep  moving  if  only  to  keep  warm. 

Quartus  would  come  in,  red  and  hungry,  and 
polish  off  two  good  platefuls  of  whatever  was  on 
the  plate  —  though  he  was  still  a  bit  critical  as  to 
puddings,  and  maintained  that  he  didn't  like 
tapioca.  Hard  sauce,  with  nutmeg  on  the  top, 
he  would  simply  never  eat,  and  would  slop  a  little 
milk,  gloomily,  over  the  groundwork  for  that 
usually  much-relished  dainty. 

Nobody  had  ever  suggested  his  taking  a  nap; 

when    the    others    retired    for    their    siesta,    Our 

Cousin  lay  and  pondered  in  a  long  chair  and  read 

-  if  one  could  be  sure  it  was  reading  —  from  his 

famous  book. 

"I  am  not  a  magician,"  Our  Mother  would 
explain  modestly,  "and  bed  at  half  past  six  is 
the  most  I  insist  on;  you  have  to  be  used  to  a 
nap." 

But  lo,  and  behold!  After  six  weeks,  Our 
Cousin,  of  his  own  free  will,  suggested  going  up 
stairs  with  the  Three ! 

"I  have  a  feeling  that  I  should  go  to  sleep,  too," 
he  vouchsafed;  and  after  that  a  procession  of 
four,  each  licking  a  tiny  stick  of  peppermint  or 


COUSIN    QUARTUS  159 

cinnamon  or  wintergreen  candy,  ascended  the 
stairs,  full  of  luncheon  and  virtue. 

The  only  practical  annoyance  that  ever  occurred 
to  Our  Mother  in  connection  with  Cousin  Quartus 
-  greatly  to  Our  Friends'  surprise,  who  supposed 
that  four  is  to  three  as  worry  is  to  peace  —  was  in 
connection  with  his  nightly  prayers.  You  would 
not,  of  course,  have  supposed  this,  because  you 
think  vaguely  and  in  the  mass,  probably,  about 
the  daily  calendar  of  childhood,  unless  you  issue 
and  maintain  such  a  calendar,  when  you  think 
definitely  and  in  detail.  And  it  is  the  details,  as 
Lincoln  or  Euripides  or  Montaigne  says,  that 
count. 

Consider,  now,  how  it  would  be.  First  Tertius 
emerges  from  the  bathroom,  permanently  unbut 
toned,  in  regard  to  his  back  —  because  the  but 
tonholes  were  weakened  when  they  came  down 
to  Secunda  -  -  indescribably  fresh  and  succulent, 
damp  about  the  neck.  Quartus,  of  course,  fol 
lows  him,  but  owing  to  the  fact  that  on  the 
boys'  bath  nights  the  girls  take  what  is  broadly 
described  as  "a  wash,"  reserving  their  more  vio 
lent  splashing  for  alternate  evenings;  owing,  also, 
to  the  fact  that  Secunda  is  as  quick  as  Quartus 
is  slow,  and  is  up  on  the  third  floor  before  his 


160  ON    OUR    HILL 

clothes  are  piled  on  the  chair  beside  his  bed, 
to  say  nothing  of  his  boots  getting  into  line  on 
the  nursery  hearth  —  and  the  assembling  of  a 
troop  of  cavalry  for  review  is  child's  play  to  Quar- 
tus's  alignment  of  his  boots !  —  owing,  I  say,  to 
these  facts,  Secunda  is  ready  for  her  prayers  be 
fore  Quartus.  And  Quartus,  to  Our  Mother's  in 
tense  disgust,  recites  the  Lord's  Prayer,  whereas 
Tertius  still  murmurs  "Now  I  lay  me"  in  the 
softest,  most  enchanting  alto.  On  these  occasions 
Our  Mother  cannot  help  feeling  that  he  is  a  lucky 
Deity  indeed  to  whom  that  cooing  petition  is  ad 
dressed,  and  she  wonders,  jealously,  if  He  knows 
it.  ... 

Well,  after  Tertius  has  been,  not  sufficiently  - 
for  there  is  no  possible  repletion  of  caresses  where 
that  practised  lover  is  concerned !  —  but  reason 
ably  kissed,  Our  Mother  mounts  the  stairs  to  Se 
cunda,  and  listens  to  her  rapturous  saga  of  the 
day's  Robin  Hood  adventures  or  the  Crusader's 
feats  that  fill  her  play  hours.  Under  her  thick 
bronze  waves  of  hair  lies  a  tiny  pine-needle  pillow; 
on  one  side  a  featureless  flat  thing  that  was  once 
a  doll  —  and  not  an  attractive  doll,  in  the  least; 
on  the  other,  what  is  technically  known  as  "Se- 
cunda's  bed  donkey,"  a  wabbly  gray  creature  of 


COUSIN    QUARTUS  161 

nameless  texture,  with  one  flopping  ear.  Secunda 
arranges  them  mechanically,  as  you  would  pack 
your  pillows  for  the  night;  there  is  no  sentiment 
about  it,  no  apparent  affection.  She  never  touches 
them  during  the  day,  but  woe  to  the  chambermaid 
who  disposes  of  them  out  of  their  owner's  reach 
at  five  minutes  to  seven ! 

"Forever'n'ever,  amen,"  she  concludes,  feels  for 
the  bed  donkey,  verifies  the  faceless  doll,  puts  her 
cheek  on  the  pine  pillow,  and  abruptly,  before 
one's  eyes,  ceases  to  be  conscious.  She  is  not 
there,  simply ! 

Does  she  leap,  instantly,  upon  an  Arab  mare 
and  scour  the  plain  with  Saladin?  Is  that  gur 
gling  laugh  at  some  joke  of  Friar  Tuck  ?  Nobody 
can  know.  Perhaps,  for  a  time,  long,  low  rollers 
from  those  mysterious  white  tides  of  oblivion  that 
we  call  deep  sleep  wash  over  her  quicksilver  brain, 
blotting  out  for  a  little  that  joyous,  elfin  thing 
that  is  Secunda's  self.  Perhaps  at  that  age  chil 
dren  go  back  for  a  little  to  where  they  came  from 
and  toss  stars  to  each  other  across  the  Milky  Way 
for  an  hour,  or  a  century,  or  a  second,  calling  to 
each  other  bits  of  celestial  gossip  through  the  in 
finite  spaces.  Perhaps  ...  but  who  can  tell? 
Secunda  is  asleep. 


162  ON     OUR     HILL 

Now  Our  Mother  must  go  down  again  and  re 
ceive  between  her  spread  knees  the  drawled  devo 
tions  of  Cousin  Quartus.  Even  at  the  throne  of 
grace  Our  Cousin  sniffs  —  a  mysterious  sniff  that 
no  handkerchief  can  assuage,  no  forethought  obvi 
ate.  Moreover,  he  burrows  and  nuzzles  into  Our 
Mother's  lap  like  a  little  calf;  and  this,  to  one  ac 
customed  to  three,  as  it  were,  carven  angels,  with 
clasped  palms  just  touching  demure  chins,  is  curi 
ously  nerve-racking.  One  feels,  somehow,  like  an 
idol,  physically  belabored  by  its  desperate  devotee  ! 

"Couldn't  you,  Quartus,  dear,  couldn't  you 
manage  to  pray  a  little  more  —  more  out  in  the 
open,  so  to  speak?"  she  beseeches  him. 

"This  is  the  way  I  always  do,"  he  says  firmly, 
and  literally  buries  himself  in  prayer. 

"And  d-deliv-liv-er  us  from  e-e-evil"  (sniff)  — 
"I  mean,  from  our  trespasses.  Amen,"  he  sighs, 
and  emerges.  "I  can  say  'God  bless'  a  great 
many  people,  if  you  like,"  he  suggests. 

"Oh,  no.  Leave  something  to  Providence;  why 
not?"  Our  Mother  answers  hastily,  and  retires  as 
soon  as  possible  to  dress  for  dinner. 

And  now  begins  the  complication.  At  seven 
o'clock  Our  Mother  is  splashing  in  the  tub,  at 
seven-fifteen  she  is  dressing,  and  it  is  at  seven- 


COUSIN    QUARTUS  163 

fifteen  that  Prima  strolls  in,  the  pinkest  of  the 
three.  Prima  is  all  white  and  rose  and  yellow 
and  blue;  her  neck  is  like  a  china  doll's,  and  her 
forehead  and  chin  are  quite  white  and  melt  with 
delicious  pearly  shadings  into  the  deep  pink  of 
her  plump  cheeks. 

"Oh!  May  I  stay?  May  I  see  you?"  she 
oreathes.  "I  love  those  slippers!  One  of  the 
girls'  mother  has  little  tiny  diamonds  on  the  heels 
of  hers  —  did  you  ever?  She  asked  if  you  did, 
and  I  said,  'No,  indeed;  wTe  didn't  care  for  things 
so  fancy  ! ' ' 

"If  you  upset  that  bottle,  Prima,  you  simply 
won't  have  it  when  you're  eighteen,  that's  all. 
They  were  your  grandmother's,  and  I'm  saving 
them  for  you,  but  you  know  how  slippery  you 


are. 

(6 


O-oh  !     I  wonder  how  I'll  feel  when  my  dresses 

are   cut   out   like   that.     Do  you  think  I'll  look 

well,  Mother?" 

"Very,  I  should  say;  blondes  always  do." 
"But  my  nose!     Will  it  ever  be  like  yours? 

Secunda  says  it'll  always  be  funny  and  —  well, 

funny,  you  know!     Will  it?" 

:<  You'll  probably  grow  up  to  it  —  Please  don't 

fiddle  with  those  jet  pins,  Prima!" 


164  ON    OUR    HILL 

"But  how'll  I  know  what  to  say?  I  mean, 
when  I  go  down  to  the  drawing-room  late,  and 
the  guests  are  all  there  ?  You  say  something  and 
they  all  laugh.  Shall  I?" 

"I  wouldn't  risk  it,"  says  Our  Mother  conserv 
atively.  "You'd  better  be  on  time,  perhaps!" 

"Because  I'm  fair  —  not  dark,  like  you?  Is  it 
better  for  fair  people?" 

"There's  a  great  deal  in  that  theory,"  Our 
Mother  agrees  thoughtfully.  "It  often  works  out 
that  way.  Now,  really,  Prima,  Fvelbeen  looking 
for  that  white  ribbon  all  this  time !  It's  my  slip 
per  ribbon  —  it's  not  a  fillet.  You  simply  can't 
wait  up,  if  you  are  so  bothering.  You'd  better 
come  up  earlier  Saturday  nights." 

"Oh,  Mother !     Me ?     Before  seven ? " 

Those  precious  fifteen  minutes  of  seniority  are 
dear  to  Prima's  soul;  they  elevate  her  above  "the 
children";  they  are  the  sign-manual  and  hall-mark 
of  her  ten  years. 

"There!  There  comes  somebody,  now!"  Our 
Mother  observes  irrelevantly.  "Come  on,  Prima, 
I'll  hear  you  now.  Did  I  get  any  powder  on  my 
shoulder,  Lena?  That  must  be  sunburn." 

Down  drops  Our  Eldest;  not  in  one  continuous, 
flowing  motion,  like  Secunda,  who  alights  on  her 


Between  the  girls,  with  a  view  to  increasing  his  devotional  velocity 


COUSIN     QUARTUS  167 

knees  like  a  falling  leaf;  not  with  the  delicate 
gravity  of  Tertius,  who  makes  the  statuettes  of 
the  Infant  Samuel  seem  frivolous.  No,  Prima 
lumbers  down,  like  the  baby  elephant  in  the  arena, 
careful  of  her  knees. 

And  while  her  soft  reverence  rounds  the  periods 
of  the  great  petition,  Our  Mother  leaning  over 
her  the  while,  with  respectful  and  perfectly  honest 
attention,  Lena  carefully  powders  the  sunburn  - 
one  hopes  one  isn't  being  too  efficient ! 

A  great  idea  came  to  Our  Mother,  after  many 
weeks  of  Cousin  Quartus's  burrowings  and  snif- 
flings,  and  she  harnessed  him  into  a  sort  of  spike- 
team  between  the  girls,  with  a  view  to  increasing 
his  devotional  velocity. 

At  first  it  was  rather  hopeless;  Prima,  with  set 
jaw,  refused  to  abate  her  pace  by  so  much  as  a 
millimetre,  and  our  poor  Cousin,  dropping  behind 
at  "daily  bread,"  lost  a  length  by  "trespasses," 
gasped  and  swallowed  too  long  at  "trespass  against 
us,"  and  found  himself  mumbling  "deliver  us  from 
evil,"  with  Prima' s  disgusted,  "amen"  firmly 
aimed  at  one  ear,  while  Secunda  bellowed  "f'r- 
ever'n'ever"  accusingly  into  the  other!  The  next 
evening  he  strategically  omitted  all  reference  to 
trespasses,  employing  the  time  gained  by  this 


168  ON    OUR    HILL 

manoeuvre  in  taking  breath  for  the  rest  of  the 
prayer,  only  to  be  confronted  by  a  scornful  Prima 
and  Secunda  peony-colored  with  rage ! 

"I  suppose  you  have  no  trespasses,"  bitingly 
suggests  Our  Eldest. 

"I  wouldn't  swallow  while  I  prayed,  if  I  was 
you/'  sputters  Secunda. 

"You  yawn,  yourself,  every  time,  at  "tres 
passes'!"  retorts  Prima. 

"I  do  not!" 

"You  do!" 

"I  do-    -" 

"Not  another  word!"  says  Our  Mother  firmly. 

Quartus,  with  great  cleverness,  takes  no  part  in 
these  discussions,  but  lets  the  storm  rage  on  over 
his  head ! 

"It  is  perfectly  disgusting,  Prima,  when  you 
know  what  we  are  doing  this  for,"  Our  Mother 
begins.  "Surely  you  might  go  a  little  slower." 

"But  I  thought  it  was  to  teach  him  to  go 
faster?" 

Our  Mother  looks  emptily  across  their  heads. 
Could  it  ever  be  possible  that  she  should  dislike 
Prima?  It  seems  so,  at  this  moment.  What  a 
disagreeable  person  he  must  have  been  who  would 
rather  be  right  than  be  president !  Did  his  mother 


COUSIN    QUARTUS  169 

always  love  him?  Of  course,  in  a  general  way, 
nor  height  nor  depth  nor  any  other  creature  can 
ever  separate  one  from  the  love  of  one's  mother. 
If  Prima  should  commit  a  murder,  for  example,  or 
run  away  with  the  riding-master,  it  would  make 
no  difference.  But  if  she  persists  in  being  in  the 
right  —  the  literal  right  —  in  any  case,  at  any 
cost  ? 

Our  Cousin,  when  he  came  to  us,  was  an  experi 
enced  schoolboy,  and  great  was  the  doubt  in  many 
minds  in  Our  Family  Connection  when  Our 
Mother  issued  an  ultimatum  of  "no  school!" 

"He  was  in  the  third  grade,"  said  some  one, 
"and  it  seems  almost  a  pity.  .  .  ." 

"It  seems  more  of  a  pity  to  me,"  Our  Mother 
replied  coldly,  "that  a  boy  of  nearly  seven  can't 
walk  two  miles  without  lagging  and  puffing,  nor 
remember  a  message  the  length  of  a  flight  of 
stairs,  nor  scratch  his  finger  without  crying,  nor 
throw  a  ball  in  front  of  him  without  sending  it 
back  over  one  ear!" 

"Really?" 

"Really,"  said  Our  Mother. 

"But  he  is  a  brave  little  fellow,  we  think." 

"Urn,"  says  Our  Mother.  "Then  he  must 
learn,  when  Secunda  suggests  that  there  are  bears 


170  ON     OUR    HILL 

in  the  closet  from  which  he's  just  got  out  his  bath- 
wrapper,  and  growls  —  he  must  learn  not  to 
scream  for  me !" 

"How  will  you  teach  him?" 

"Advise  him  to  growl  back  and  tell  her  one  of 
the  bears  has  got  out!" 

And,  curiously  enough,  he  did.  Our  Cousin  had 
a  very  neat  little  sense  of  humor,  which  made  his 
training  amazingly  easy,  and  his  quiet  little 
chuckle,  when  this  method  of  conquering  nervous 
terror  was  suggested,  was  good  to  hear. 

"I  tried  it,  and  it  worked,"  he  confided  gleefully 
to  Our  Mother. 

"Good  for  you  !     What  did  Secunda  do?" 

"Oh,  she  just  sort  of  sniffed  and  walked  off !" 

Thus  Fate  sometimes  steps  in  and  supports  us. 

Not  that  his  life  was  easy  at  first.  None  of  the 
Three  had  ever  before  encountered  Our  Cousin's 
curious  megalomania,  his  honest  conviction  (which 
had  apparently  misled  many  of  his  relatives)  that 
words  were  the  same  as  deeds.  When  he  told 
them  that  he  had  been  to  Newport  and  Virginia 
and  San  Francisco  they  hooted  scornfully  and 
teased  him  unmercifully  for  a  liar,  till  they  found 
out,  to  their  chastened  amazement,  that  he  had 
spoken  the  exact  truth.  After  that,  Tertius,  who 


COUSIN    QUARTUS  171 

had  never  been  farther  than  the  village  till  he  was 
five,  regarded  Cousin  Quartus  with  veneration  and 
believed  his  lightest  words. 

So  when  he  told  them,  largely,  that  he  could 
run  "any  kind  of  a  car,"  they  glared  jealously, 
knocked  him  down  promptly,  in  their  stupid,  effi 
cient,  Saxon  way,  and  changed  the  subject. 

But  it  rankled;  beyond  doubt,  it  rankled.  Ter- 
tius,  after  his  prayers,  stroked  his  mother's  hand, 
cuddled  her  a  little,  and  then  asked  shyly: 

"Couldn't  I  run  the  car?  Couldn't  Clark 
teach  me?  Quart  knows  how." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I  hardly  think  so." 

"But  he  does.  He  said  so.  And  he  was  on  a 
dreadnought,  once.  He  thinks  maybe  it  was  a 
superdreadnought;  but  it  was  a  dreadnought, 
anyhow.  All  over  it,  he  was." 

"All  over  it  at  once,  angel?" 

"I  dunno.     Maybe." 

"Can  he  run  the  dreadnought,  too?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  says  Tertius,  quite  simply.  "Quart 
can  run  any  kind  of  machinery,  if  he  had  a  big 
enough  motor,  he  says.  I  wish  I'd  been  to  Fran 
Sanfrisco.  Why  don't  we  ever  go  anywhere?" 

"Because,  dearest,  you'd  never  get  anywhere," 
Our  Mother  answers  seriously.  "Everywhere  you 


172  ON    OUR    HILL 

got,   they'd   never   let  you   go   on   any  farther. 
They'd  keep  you  there." 

"Why?" 

"Because  you're  so  silly  and  sweet!" 

"Oh!" 

Behold  us  all  at  the  front  door.  Cousin  Quartus 
is  walking  wisely  around  the  motor,  giving  here  a 
knowing  pat,  there  a  critical  frown. 

"Shall  I  advance  the  spark  for  you,  Clark?"  he 
inquires  breezily. 

"No,  thanks;  it's  quite  right  as  it  is,  sir,"  says 
Clark  gravely,  with  what  is  fondly  believed  by 
all  to  be  a  naval  salute  —  a  ceremony  he  rarely 
omits  in  conversations  with  Our  Cousin. 

"Oh,  all  right.  I  just  asked,  that's  all.  That 
is  the  dif-fer-ent-ial,  down  there.  Is  she  working 
well  this  morning,  Clark?" 

"Middling.  Would  you  care  to  have  her  out 
for  a  bit,  yourself  --  sir?" 

Prima  giggles  loudly,  Secunda  vibrates  between 
scorn  and  doubt,  Tertius  is  frankly  eaten  with 
jealousy.  Our  Mother  advances. 

"That's  a  very  good  idea,"  she  says  cordially. 
"Now,  Quartus,  since  you  know  so  much  about 
this  car,  hop  in  and  take  us  all  down  to  the  village. 
Then  Clark  can  put  in  a  little  time  on  the  lawn." 


COUSIN    QUARTUS  173 

"Oh,  Mother  !     Do  you  mean  it  ?     Can  he  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  says  Our  Mother.  " That's 
what  we're  going  to  find  out.  Are  you  all  ready, 
Quartus?" 

"Well,  er  —  I--er- 

" Mother,  would  you  dare?" 

"  Me  ?  Just  watch  me ! "  says  Our  Mother  (who 
plays  a  very  fair  game  of  poker) ,  mounting  into  the 
tonneau  composedly.  "The  reverse  isn't  acting 
very  well,  Quartus,  dear,  if  you  want  to  use  it. 
Are  you  ready  ? " 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that  I  do  run  her,  Aunt 
Jo-o-se-phine,"  explains  Our  Cousin,  still  smiling. 
"I  meant  that  I  can  run  her !" 

"Ah,"  says  Our  Mother,  "but  if  you  can,  why 
not  do  it?" 

"We-ell.  .  .  ." 

The  children  stand  breathless  about  him.  Clark 
grins  sardonically. 

"I  don't  mean  that  I  can  run  her,  exactly  -- 1 
mean  that  I  know  how  to  run  her !" 

"Ah,"  says  Our  Mother,  again,  while  the  chil 
dren  whoop  joyously. 

"We  all  know  that!  Oh,  Quartus!  O-ho! 
0-ho!" 

"And  so  he  doesn't  know  a  bit  more  than  I 


174  ON    OUR    HILL 

do!"  Tertius  cries,  and  administers  a  gay  slap  on 
the  shoulder,  under  which  our  poor  Cousin  crum 
ples  and  reels  against  a  pillar. 

"  Tertius!  Don't  be  so  rough!  I'm  dis 
gusted  - 

"Rough!"  Prima  shouts  derisively.  "You  call 
that  rough  ?  Heavens !  He  barely  touched  the 
boy  !  If  you  breathe  on  Quartus,  over  he  goes !" 

"Over  he  goes  !  Whoof  !  Whoof  !"  Secunda  is 
inspired  to  add,  and  puffs  out  a  blast  so  startling 
that  Our  Cousin,  far  too  open  to  suggestion,  ac 
tually  sways  like  a  reed;  whereat  Secunda  whoops 
with  mirth  and  turns  three  somersaults  in  rapid 
succession  to  relieve  her  feelings. 

"Whoof,  whoof!"  Priina  cannot  refrain  from 
adding. 

"Whoof,  whoof!"  Tertius  contributes.  "Over 
you  go,  Quart!  Whoof,  whoof!" 

Suddenly  pandemonium  is  let  loose.  Every 
body  is  whoofing  and  laughing  and  pushing.  Riga, 
the  big  mother  dog,  comes  up  heavily,  approaches 
Quartus  from  his  utterly  unguarded  rear,  opens 
her  great  mouth  and  sighs  windily. 

"Whoof,  whoof!" 

Quartus  heels  over  like  a  rabbit,  with  a  terrified 
squeak,  kicking  violently.  Clark  guffaws.  Our 


COUSIN    QUARTUS 


175 


Mother  laughs  helplessly,  tries  to  catch  somebody 
-  anybody  —  and  shake  it,  fails,  claps  her  hands 
for  order,  picks  up  Quartus  under  one  arm,  squirm 
ing  and  squeaking,  and  sets  him  down  with  em- 


-s.  i 

"Whoof,  whoof !"  Tertius  contributes.     "Over  you  go,  Quart!" 

phasis  on  the  back  seat,  slamming  the  door  after 
her. 

"Oh,  me,  me,  me!  Take  me!  It's  my  turn! 
Wait  for  me!" 

"Stop  just  exactly  where  you  are,"  says  Our 
Mother,  "and  listen  to  me.  Not  one  of  you  shall 
go,  not  one  !  You  are  excessively  rude  and  rough. 


176  ON    OUR    HILL 

I  shall  take  Quartus  for  a  ride  alone.  He  is  a  silly 
little  boy  to  boast  about  driving  the  car,  because 
we  all  know  he  can't.  But  that  is  no  reason  for 
knocking  him  about  like  a  ninepin.  And  you  are 
very  much  mistaken,  Tertius.  I  have  no  doubt 
he  knows  a  lot  more  about  the  car  than  you  do. 
He  knows  more  about  a  great  many  things,  in 
fact,  as  you  may  find  out,  if  you  live  long  enough 
-  and  let  him  live  long  enough ! 

"Now,  Quartus,  stop  snivelling,  and  wipe  your 
nose.  No,  you  don't  need  your  admiral's  cap. 
All  right,  Clark!" 

"Well,  of  all  the  unfair  things !"  Prima  swells 
with  rage. 

"Just  because  a  boy  tumbles  down  if  you  say 
'whoof  to  him,  he  gets  the  ride!  I  must  say!" 

"I  s'pose  Riga  is  wicked,  too;  she  said  'whoof 
the  worst  of  any  of  us  ! "  Secunda  adds  mutinously. 

"I  wish  my  ankles  was  weak!"  Tertius  mur 
murs,  glowering  at  his  beautiful  brier-scratched 

legs. 

"Be  a  cry-baby,  Tert,  and  then  you'll  get  rides," 
Prima  suggests  bitterly. 

"Boo-hoo!  Boo-hoo!"  Secunda  improvises,  and 
"Hoo,  hoo!"  Tertius  wails,  half  in  earnest,  half 
laughing. 


COUSIN    QUARTUS  177 

"Aunt  Jo-o-o-se-phine !  Oh!  Aunt  Jo-o-o-se- 
phine ! "  Prima  mimics,  and  Riga  lifts  a  mournful, 
sympathetic  howl,  that  echoes  after  us  down  the 
hill. 

'They  are  very  rude,  aren't  they?"  Our  Cousin 
inquires  complacently. 

'They  certainly  are,"  Our  Mother  returns 
shortly,  "but  they  are  very  human,  Quartus;  and 
if  you  are  going  to  school  next  year,  my  dear  boy, 
you'll  have  to  learn  to  get  used  to  worse  than  that, 
you  know." 

"But  Prima  won't  be  there,  will  she?  She 
teases  me  the  most." 

"She  won't  be  a  patch  on  what  the  boys  at 
school  will  do  to  you.  That's  one  reason  why  I 
don't  stop  them.  You'd  better  get  used  to  it 
now.  Otherwise  you'll  be  dreadfully  unhappy. 
You've  got  to  learn  how  to  play." 

"Um.  Learn-ing  how  to  pla-ay  seems  ve-ry 
much  the  same  thing  as  learning  how  to  get 
knocked  dow-own,  doesn't  it?"  Quartus  observes 
thoughtfully. 

"That's  the  idea  exactly." 

"We-ell,  in  that  case,  I  ought  to  be  ve-ry  clever 
at  it  when  I  go  away  from  here,  oughtn't  I,  Aunt 
Jo-o-se-phine  ?  " 


178  ON     OUR    HILL 

Our  Mother  laughs  abruptly  and  Cousin  Quar- 
tus  adds  his  jolly  chuckle  to  her  mirth. 

"Do  you  know,  Quartus,  you're  a  pretty  good 
sport,  after  all !"  she  says  warmly.  And  after  all, 
isn't  he? 


EXITS    AND    ENTRANCES 


OUR  ROLES 

FULL  many  a  part  with  a  doubtful  heart, 
I've  played  on  our  Family  Stage; 
From  leading  lady  to  capering  clown 
I've  won  your  smile  and  I've  dared  your  frown, 
I've  wooed  you  to  mirth  and  rage. 
No  crowded  audience  sitting  a-stare 
Held  ever  a  terror  for  me, 
For  only  you  three,  my  dears,  I  care — 
Just  three,  my  dears,  just  three ! 

Often  the  world  has  laughed  with  me, 

Often  I've  made  it  cry; 

Sometimes  it  crowded  my  booth  at  the  Fair, 

With  flowers  and  favors  to  please  me  there, 

And  sometimes  it  passed  me  by. 

But  whether  they  came  or  stayed  or  passed, 

Or  were  they  many  or  few, 

'Twas  only  you,  my  dears,  at  the  last — 

Just  you,  my  dears,  just  you ! 

Some  of  your  parts  will  break  your  hearts, 

Some  you  can  never  learn, 

Often  you'll  run  on  the  stage  too  late, 

Often  you'll  curse  the  grim  old  Fate 

That  called  you  out  of  your  turn. 

But  villainous  black  or  angel  pure, 

Whichever  you  have  to  be, 

Of  me,  my  dears,  you'll  always  be  sure — 

Just  me,  my  dears,  just  me ! 


EXITS    AND    ENTRANCES 

AS  soon  as  Our  Friends  learned  that  Prima 
•*  *•  and  Secunda  had  at  last  been  taken  to  the 
theatre  they  demanded  eagerly  to  know  all  about 
it,  and  Our  Mother  began  as  eagerly  to  tell  them; 
that  is  to  say,  she  thought  she  began  to  tell  them. 
But  after  she  had  described  the  white  smocks 
and  the  blue  beads  and  the  black-and-white  check 
coats  with  China-blue  collars  and  cuffs,  and  the 
little  round  white  hats  with  blue-velvet  bands; 
after  the  luncheon  (with  creamed  potatoes)  at  the 
Holland  House,  and  Secunda's  waiting  for  every 
one  to  pass  by  on  Fifth  Avenue  before  she  could 
cross  the  pavement  to  get  into  the  wonderful  up 
stairs  part  of  the  'bus  (woe  to  the  friend  who 
offers  a  motor,  when  we  come  to  town !) ,  after  the 
curtain  had  really  rung  up,  so  to  speak,  Our 
Friends  began  to  grow  a  trifle  restless. 

"But  you  are  only  telling  how  you  felt,  all  the 
time!"  they  said.  "What  did  Secunda  say? 
Something  killing,  we  know !  Did  she  act  it  all 
out,  afterward?" 

183 


184  ON    OUR    HILL 

Now,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Our  Mother  simply 
can't  remember  what  they  said.  She  doesn't 
know  whether  they  acted  it  all  out  afterward,  or 
not,  principally  because  she  never  followed  them 
about,  in  order  to  find  out.  Sensible  children 
don't  hunt  audiences  for  those  things.  And  the 
only  remarks  Secunda  made  began  with  "Why." 

Perhaps  an  examination  for  a  Beaux  Arts  de 
gree,  where  one  must  answer  offhand  any  ques 
tion  that  any  professor  of  any  subject  chooses  to 
fire  at  one,  may  result  in  something  of  the  same 
sort  of  nervous  wear  and  tear;  perhaps  a  major 
surgical  operation  may  leave  the  victim  in  the 
same  subsequent  physical  prostration.  Our  Mother 
does  not  know,  never  having  undergone  either 
test.  But  she  knows  that  she  got  home  very 
white-faced,  with  dark  circles  beneath  her  eyes, 
and  distinctly  recalls  that  she  never  came  down 
from  her  room,  once  she  got  up  there,  but  had 
something  sent  up  on  a  tray. 

It  all  seems  very  simple  now. 

We  trot  up  to  the  oculist,  and  down  again  for 
shoes,  and  in  for  a  look  at  some  pictures,  and 
have  lunch,  and  polish  off  "  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream"  or  "The  Tempest,"  and  eat  an  egg  sand 
wich  in  the  train,  and  think  nothing  of  it. 


EXITS    AND     ENTRANCES     185 

But  those  first  expeditions ! 

Our  Mother  was  the  only  link  between  those 
excited,  inquiring,  eager  little  niinds  and  the 
strange,  new  world  of  the  street,  the  restaurant, 
the  theatre.  You  who  take  all  these  for  granted, 
who  graduated  from  these  universities  of  public 
life  long  ago,  forget  that  to  the  fresh  mind  undulled 
by  use  and  wont,  unstained  by  contacts  innu 
merable,  one  thing  is  as  piquant  as  another.  You 
don't  suppose,  for  instance,  that  a  visitor  from 
Mars  or  Venus  would  find  the  Colosseum  or  the 
Dresden  Madonna  or  the  Boston  Symphony  any 
more  interesting  than  your  kitchen  or  a  crayon 
portrait  of  your  uncle  or  the  piano-tuner  at  work  ? 
Believe  me,  he  would  not.  The  fact  that  any 
body  at  all  existed  on  this  quaint  little  planet, 
which  he  had  always  regarded  as  an  addition  to 
his  evening  sky  only,  would  amuse  him  immensely, 
and  while  you  were  showing  him  the  Brooklyn 
Bridge  he  would  probably  be  marvelling  at  the 
way  in  which  your  ears  were  set  onto  your  head. 

So  when  Our  Friends  begged  Prima  to  describe 
her  first  day  in  New  York,  and  she  replied  dreamily 
that  she  had  creamed  potato  at  the  Holland 
House,  they  were  very  much  put  about,  as  my 
Cape  Cod  grandmother  used  to  say. 


186  ON    OUR    HILL 

"But  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  didn't  you  enjoy  the  play?" 
they  asked. 

"Oh,  yes.  We  had  little  tables,  each  one  to  our- 
self,  and  great,  square  napkins.  I  tucked  mine 
in,  but  the  grown-ups  didn't." 

"What  part  of  the  play  did  you  like  best?" 

"I  liked  all  of  it  pretty  well.  There  was  one 
sort  of  butler  who  was  at  the  head;  he  stood  by 
the  door  and  the  other  waiting-men  obeyed  him. 
It  had  to  be  paid,  what  we  ate.  Wasn't  that 
funny?" 

"It's  quite  clear  that  she  hasn't  inherited  your 
imagination,"  said  Our  Friends  coldly.  :<Tell  us, 
Secunda,  darling,  what  did  you  like  best  in  the 
play?" 

"I  choosed  mashed  potato,  too,"  Secunda  re 
plies  cheerily,  "but  I  could  have  choosed  sweet, 
if  I'd  liked.  But  I  took  the  same  as  Prima.  And 
ice-cream,  of  course.  We  left  some  money  over, 
on  the  little  silver  tray.  It  was  for  him.  That's 
called  a  tip  —  did  you  know  ?  I  noticed  that  he 
did  tip  the  tray,  myself,  but  he  didn't  spill  any 
off.  I  love  New  York,  don't  you?" 

"There,  there,"  Our  Mother  soothes  them, 
"never  mind.  It's  hard  lines,  but  they're  honest, 
you  see.  You  want  to  know  what  interests  them 


EXITS    AND    ENTRANCES     187 

(or  you  think  you  want  to  know)  and  they  are 
telling  you  what  interests  them,  that's  all.  You'd 
better  ask  me  what  /  thought  about  the  play, 
hadn't  you?  You'll  like  it  better.  You  see,  I 
don't  like  hotel  waiters  —  I  find  their  finger-nails 
dirty  —  and  I  don't  eat  mashed  potato.  It's  too 
fattening.  And  what  I  think  about  tips  in  this 
country,  I'd  hate  to  tell  you.  So  I  can  put  my 
mind  on  Maeterlinck.  I  weep  gallons  at  the 
'Blue  Bird,'  and  get  all  sorts  of  reactions,  just 
as  the  author  intended  I  should.  But  I'm  trained. 
I've  been  going  to  school  down  here  in  the  world 
a  long  time." 

'That's  all  very  witty  ..."  they  reply  dis 
contentedly,  but  it's  not  at  all  witty  —  it's  sim 
ply  true. 

What  you  forget  is  this,  and  you  are  always  and 
forever  forgetting  it:  when  you  take  a  six-year- 
old  who  has  never  left  the  grass  and  the  rocks 
and  the  nursery  bathtub  to  see  a  great  parade 
up  Fifth  Avenue,  you  must  not  be  vexed  if  the 
infant  fails  to  notice  the  parade  and  stares  at  the 
crowds  on  the  pavements.  Do  not  ask  me  if  the 
infant  prefers  the  crowds  to  the  parade,  or  fails  to 
see  that  they  are  two  separate  things,  or  thinks 
the  crowd  is  the  parade,  for  I  do  not  know.  What 


188  ON     OUR    HILL 

is  more,  if  you  catechise  him  I  doubt  if  you  will 
be  able  to  find  out. 

"Peter  Pan"  was  Secunda's  introduction  to 
the  drama.  We  had  read  it  and  discussed  it  and 
Our  Mother  thought  they  understood  that  every 
thing  would  come  right  in  the  end.  Nevertheless, 
the  livid  and  terrible  face  of  the  handless  Cap 
tain  Hook  was  too  much  for  Secunda,  and  though 
one  kept  repeating  to  her: 

"It  will  be  all  right,  darling,  no  one  —  no  one 
can  beat  Peter;  he  will  never  walk  the  plank!" 
her  gasps  turned  to  gulps,  and  the  gulps  turned  to 
sobs,  and  her  lovely,  flushed  cheeks  were  all 
stained  with  frightened  tears. 

"I  can't  bear  it  any  longer!"  she  burst  out,  at 
last,  as  the  pirates  backed  the  brave  Peter  farther 
and  farther  along  the  deck. 

Our  Mother  picked  her  up  like  a  baby  and 
walked  up  and  down  in  the  little  corridor  behind 
the  stage-box,  where  we  were  one  of  a  happy 
party,  soothing  her. 

"You  needn't  see  any  more,  dear;  don't  sob  so ! 
Or  you  can  wait  till  this  act  is  over,  and  see  the 
children  come  home  to  Mrs.  Darling  —  then  there 
won't  be  any  more  pirates." 

"No.  I'll  go  back  now.  I  think  I'll  have  to. 
I  won't  cry  out  loud,  Muddy !" 


EXITS    AND    ENTRANCES     189 

So  we  went  back,  and  she  shuddered  on  Our 
Mother's  lap,  but  refused  to  budge. 

"Pooh!  I  knew  Peter  Pan  was  all  right,  all 
the  time!"  Prima  boasted  scornfully,  forgetting 
her  brimming  eyes,  her  bitten  lip. 

"And  I  knew,  too,"  Secunda  retorts,  "but  I 
got  all  hot  and  then  I  got  all  cold,  and  my  mouth 
shook." 

Our  small  hosts  and  hostesses  sit  stolidly  in  the 
box. 

"It  will  be  all  right,"  Our  Mother  assures 
them.  "It  isn't  real,  you  know." 

"We  know,"  they  reply  calmly.  "Our  govern 
ess  read  it  to  us.  We  don't  mind." 

Now,  which  is  really  to  be  envied,  poor  Secunda, 
happy  in  her  heart-break,  or  they  whom  art 
leaves  unshaken?  For  such  tests  there  are  no 
adequate  thermometers. 

Two  years  later,  discussing  these  things  care 
lessly  around  the  lunch-table,  Our  Mother  makes 
a  surprising  discovery. 

"Cunda's  not  such  a  baby,  now,"  Prima  vouch 
safes  patronizingly. 

"I  wasn't,  then,"  says  Secunda  promptly,  "only 
I  was  awfly  s'prised,  that  was  all.  I  thought 
they'd  be  parrots  on  that  ship,  and  they  were 
men.  I  couldn't  get  it  straight." 


190  ON     OUR    HILL 

"Parrots?     What  do  you  mean,  lamb?" 

"Pirates,  you  know,"  she  explains.  "We  hadn't 
read  'Treasure  Island'  then,  and  I  didn't  know 
what  they  were.  I  thought  'twould  be  birds." 

"For  heaven's  sake!" 

"I  thought  that,  too,"  Prima  admits,  "but  I 
never  said  anything  when  I  found  out.  Red  and 
green,  I  thought  they'd  be." 

"Of  course.  Because  there's  a  parrot-house  on 
every  ship,"  Tertius  remarks.  "Don't  you  remem 
ber  the  fight  in  the  parrot-house  in  'Treasure 
Island '  ?  Quart  and  I  often  play  it.  He  locks 
himself  into  the  parrot-house  and  I  try  to  fight 
my  way  in." 

"Oh,  darling,  that's  the  pilot-house  I" 

"Is  it?" 

He  looks  blankly  over  his  baked  potato.  Our 
Mother  has  a  fleeting,  amazing  glimpse  of  his 
poor  little  confused  brain.  Did  paroquets  and 
gorgeous  macaws  with  indigo  tails  flash  among 
the  cutlasses  and  the  revolvers  in  his  baby  vision  ? 
Was  it  some  strange  rainbow  battle  of  the  birds, 
half  human,  half  nonsensical,  and  therefore  pow 
erless  to  frighten  her,  that  Secunda  had  expected, 
those  long  two  years  ago? 

And  remember  that  this  little  glimpse  inco  the 


EXITS     AND     ENTRANCES     191 

chaos  of  their  growing  knowledge  is  only  one  of  a 
thousand  that  we  never  hear  of,  never  dream  of. 
Silently,  secretly,  they  make  the  hourly  adjust 
ments  between  their  distorted  conjectures  and 
things  as  they  are.  Silently,  secretly,  they  ponder 
upon  the  nightmare  uncertainties  that  chance 
phrases  of  ours  conjure  up  before  their  troubled 
fancy.  Silently,  secretly,  they  disentangle  their 
humiliating  mistakes  from  the  underlying  facts, 
and  weave  them  into  the  groundwork  of  certain 
ties  that  we  call  knowledge  of  life.  And  only  once 
in  a  long  while  a  bit  of  wreckage  like  this  parrot 
complex  floats  up  from  the  surface  of  the  placid 
ocean  of  their  unplumbed  reserves,  their  unfath 
omable  discretions. 

It  may  be  you  were  in  the  audience  during  that 
wonderful  performance  at  the  Hippodrome  —  Se- 
cunda's  first  Hippodrome.  It  was  a  very  ex 
traordinary  affair;  great,  living,  moving  pictures 
of  old  times  long  past,  old  costumes  long  since 
abandoned. 

Out  of  the  vast  dimness  of  the  stage  there 
loomed  an  enormous  abbey  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
with  hundreds  of  little  nuns  running  to  matins 
with  glowing  tapers  in  their  hands.  Then,  quite 
simply,  from  our  point  of  view,  Robin  Hood  and 


192  ON    OUR    HILL 

his  merry  men  burst  into  the  foreground,  and  Our 
Mother  caught  her  breath  with  joy  for  Secunda, 
who  had  just  begun  that  devotion  to  the  hero  of 
the  greenwood  that  has  never  waned. 

"Oh,  Prima!  It's  him!"  cried  the  excited 
child.  "And  there's  Friar  Tuck!  There's  Will 
Scarlett !  There's  Little  John  ! " 

"Sit  down,  darling  —  other  people  can't  see." 

"Oh,  where's  Maid  Marian,  Muddy?  Ah, 
there  she  is !" 

"That  child  has  friends  on  th'  stage,  huh?" 
says  a  massive  woman,  stuffing  chocolate,  be 
side  us.  "Makes  it  interesting  for  her,  don't 
it?" 

"It  does,  indeed,"  Our  Mother  replies  fervently, 
squeezing  Secunda's  hand. 

Friends  on  the  stage!  Thrice  fortunate  child, 
whose  imperishable  intimates  shall  beam  on  her 
as  softly  fifty  years  hence  as  to  her  enraptured 
eyes  they  beam  to-day !  What  will  it  matter  to 
Secunda  that  quite  other  shapely  limbs  fill  out 
that  suit  of  Lincoln  green  ?  What  will  she  know 
or  care  if  to-day's  Maid  Marian  be  as  wrinkled 
and  white-haired  as  she?  (Only  .  .  .  could  Se 
cunda  ever  wrinkle?)  Deathless,  forever  young, 
Maid  Marian  of  that  day  shall  prance  as  prettily 


EXITS    AND    ENTRANCES     193 

before  Secunda's  pince-nez  as  she  does  this  after 
noon  before  her  clear  child's  vision;  so  long  as 
tenor  voices  exist  upon  the  earth  one  shall  be 
found  for  Robin. 

Interesting  for  her,  indeed  !  O  woman  chewing 
chocolate,  you  who  see  only  a  chorus-girl  and  a 
man  in  a  green  coat.  Friends  on  the  stage,  in 
deed  !  Secunda  was  born  into  a  circle  of  such 
friends  as  you  have  never  imagined,  friends  who 
will  never  fail  her  till  she  goes  to  join  them  in  the 
great  country  of  Dreams-come-true ! 

Now,  suddenly,  in  comes  a  great,  illustrious 
procession  —  court,  church,  army,  and  commoners. 
The  queen,  draped  in  seed-pearls,  ladies-in-wait 
ing,  whose  spread  trains  call  for  many  pages,  jest 
ers  with  bladders,  bishops  in  copes.  There  is  a 
golden  blare  of  trumpets,  a  hollow  rattle  of 
hoofs  - 

"Oh  !  Oh  !  Oh  !"  cries  Secunda.  "It's  Rich 
ard  !  It's  Coeur-de-Lion!  Oh,  Prima!" 

"How  do  you  know?  Oh,  yes,  the  fleur-de- 
lys,"  says  Prima,  and  Our  Mother  grasps  a  hand 
of  each,  and  promptly  becomes  a  sounding-board 
of  emotion,  as  wave  on  wave  of  their  excitement 
thrills  through  her.  Never  imagine  yourself  to 
have  experienced  the  real  dramatic  shiver,  the 


194  ON     OUR     HILL 

true  frisson  du  theatre,  poor  celibates  of  this  world. 
You  must  have  sat  between  your  own  children, 
who  were  only  yesterday,  in  the  most  absolute 
physical  sense,  yourself,  sharing  your  very  blood 
streams,  beating  with  your  very  heart,  to  realize 
the  tremor  of  Art  interpreted  by  their  pulses, 
throbbing  against  your  own. 

On  comes  Richard  of  the  Lion  Heart,  glorious 
upon  his  coal-black  steed,  sitting  like  a  rock 
above  its  caracoles  and  curvets.  On  come  his 
men-at-arms,  with  banners  and  trumpets.  Thrones 
receive  the  mighty,  courtesies  sweep  the  ground, 
and  the  jousting  begins. 

Only  last  week  we  were  reading  it  —  and  now, 
here  it  is,  living  before  us.  It  seems  too  much  to 
believe.  Great  twenty-foot  lances  batter  against 
shields,  the  horses  reel  and  plunge  ...  ah,  the 
White  Knight  is  unhorsed!  In  his  glittering, 
clanking  armor  he  clatters  to  the  earth.  A  great 
sigh  bursts  from  Our  Family. 

"But  he  didn't  really  hit  him  hard;  he  fell  off 
too  easy,"  Prima  criticises.  "The  horse  expected 
it,  too  —  see  how  still  he  stands !" 

"Oh,  Prima!" 

"He  was  really  the  best  rider.  Did  you  see  how 
he  told  the  horse  where  to  go,  just  by  moving  his 


EXITS    AND     ENTRANCES     195 

wrist?  The  other  man  had  too  much  weight  in 
his  stirrups." 

"Oh,  that  doesn't  make  any  difference,"  Se- 
cunda  snaps  out.  "I  wish  you'd  keep  still,  if 
that's  all  you  have  to  say !" 

"Why  should  I  keep  still?  I  have  just  as  much 
right- 

"Prima.     Not  another  word." 

"But  haven 't  I  as  much " 

"Prima!" 

There  falls  a  charged  and  threatening  silence. 

Suddenly  -  -  what  is  this  ?  In  sweeps  a  messen 
ger,  the  crowd  bubbles  and  seethes,  a  murmur 
grows  to  a  roar. 

:s The  Arabs  .  .  .  the  Holy  Sepulchre  .  .  .  dogs 
of  unbelievers.  .  .  .  Crusade!  Crusade!" 

Up  towers  the  Lion  Heart,  up  rises  his  black, 
mailed  hand,  out  peals  his  piercing,  kingly  voice: 

"My  friends,  the  Saracen  dogs  have  seized  the 
Holy  Sepulchre  !  They  defy  our  Christian  forces  ! 
They  defile  the  sacred  places  with  idolatry !  Can 
this  be?" 

"No!  No!  No!"  growls  the  crowd,  and 
"No!  No!  No!"  Secunda  gasps  with  quivering 
chin. 

"Who  will  follow  me  to  Jerusalem  to  rescue  the 


196  ON     OUR     HILL 

Holy  Sepulchre?"  rings  out  that  royal  barytone. 
"Who  joins  me?" 

There  is  a  rustle,  a  quick  bound. 

"I !  I !"  cries  a  shrill,  sweet  voice,  and  Secunda 
is  standing  on  her  chair,  her  cheeks  scarlet,  her 
blue  eyes  darting  fire,  the  blue  beads  shaking  on 
her  heaving  chest. 

"7  will  follow!     Death  to  the  Saracen!9 

We  pull  her  down,  somehow,  while  the  blase 
eyes  of  the  Broadway  habitues  follow  her  curi 
ously,  almost  stirred  from  their  languor.  A  faint 
whisper  of  interest  spreads  around  us,  like  ripples 
from  a  flung  stone.  Then,  as  the  scene  darkens, 
the  ripples  fade  out  again,  and  the  audience  relapses 
into  its  accustomed  challenging  stupor.  They  go 
so  often,  they  stare  into  so  many  spot-lights ! 

Now,  slowly,  the  darkness  lifts  and  turns  to 
gray,  to  pearl.  The  abbey  front  dissolves,  and  a 
glistening  white  priest  raises  his  arms  below  a 
monster  cross  outlined  in  fiery  points.  A  snowy 
flock  of  choir-boys  swing  slow  censers  about  his 
knees;  the  giant  organ  spreads  a  deep,  Gregorian 
chant  above,  below,  all  around  us.  All  sink  to 
the  ground  in  prayer.  Waves  of  harmony  shake 
the  air,  and  the  cross,  incredibly  enormous,  bright 
ens  —  brightens  —  becomes  unbearable. 


"  7  will  follow!     Death  to  the  Saracen !  "  cries  Secunda 


EXITS    AND     ENTRANCES     197 

Ah-h-h !  It  is  one  solid  mass  of  white  light ! 
The  organ  thunders  and  pierces  and  climbs  to  its 
ultimate  climax.  Our  Mother  finds  that  one  must 
breathe  in  order  to  live,  and  gasps  thirstily  (was 
that  her  sob,  or  Secunda's?).  As  the  white  cross 
fades  and  everything  is  engulfed  in  blackness,  she 
realizes  that  it  is  not  Secunda's  face  whose  twisted 
mouth  and  smarting  eyes  she  had  somehow  known 
about,  but  her  own.  Those  are  not  Prima's 
cheeks  that  she  is  wiping  —  they  are  her  own.  It 
is  not  the  girls  who  are  so  tired  and  want  their 
tea  —  it  is  Our  Mother  herself  ! 

"Now  you  see  why  people  always  must  carry 
handkerchiefs,"  she  scolds.  "How  disgusting  of 
you  to  use  your  smock,  Secunda !  Prima,  one's 
sleeve  is  just  as  bad !" 

"I--I  was  going  to  take  my  gloves,"  Prima 
mumbles  humbly,  "but  —  but  you're  wiping  your- 
self  on  'em !" 

Well,  well,  what  is  Art  for,  anyway? 

By  that  blessed  arrangement  of  Providence 
which  allows  for  every  kind  of  temperament  in 
the  same  family,  we  have  each  one  her  choice 
when  it  comes  to  methods  of  dramatic  presenta 
tion. 

Our  first  Shakespearian  interpretation  was    in 


198  ON     OUR    HILL 

terms  of  the  new  Russo-German  color  movement, 
and  Oberon  and  his  attendant  fairies  dreamed 
through  their  Midsummer  Night  with  faces  and 
hands  all  golden,  while  Titania  slept  under  a  pea 
cock-blue  gauze  canopy  in  the  open  forest.  Se- 
cunda  thought  all  this  very  delightful,  but  to 
Prima's  literal  mind  it  was  distressing  in  the  ex 
treme. 

"In  the  first  place,"  she  announces  didactically, 
"I  don't  care  for  this  sort  of  thing  at  all.  When 
7  go  to  a  play,  I  don't  want  it  to  be  a  cheat;  I 
want  the  real  thing." 

"Real?  Real?"  Our  Mother  echoes  vaguely. 
"But  none  of  this  is  real,  you  know." 

"You  don't  see  what  I  mean,  Mother."  (On 
Prima's  tombstone  this  frequent  phrase  should  be 
carven:  They  didnt  see  what  I  meant.) 

"A  street  can  be  real,  can't  it?  Well,  when  the 
programme  says  'a  street  in  Athens,'  I  think  they 
should  make  real-er  houses  —  not  just  put  a  piece 
of  cloth  with  a  few  doors  and  windows  just  painted 
on  anyhow.  Why,  when  the  wind  blows,  they 
wave  —  they  simply  wave  !" 

"Oh,  I  love  that,"  Secunda  cries.  "It  makes 
you  think  of  a  street  in  Athens,  and  that's  all  you 
need,  Prima." 


EXITS    AND    ENTRANCES     199 

"It  may  be  all  you  need;  it's  not  all  I  need.  I 
call  it  a  cheat.  And  a  silly  cheat,  because  every 
thing  is  the  wrong  color,  mostly." 

"But,  niy  darling,  all  the  theatre  is  a  cheat " 

"You  don't  see  what  I  mean,  Mother." 

"My  good  child,  your  mental  processes  are  not 
so  subtle  as  all  that,  I  assure  you.  I  see  perfectly 
what  you  mean.  Only  Secunda  and  I  don't  agree 
with  you.  You  are,  as  usual,  a  trifle  behind  the 
movement,  that's  all.  You  mean  that  you  prefer 
a  rather  obvious  illusion  which  deceives  nobody, 
after  all.  The  purely  decorative  and  symbolic 
doesn't  appeal  to  you;  you  want  real  water  in  the 
pump." 

"Yes,"  says  Prima  firmly,  "I  do." 

"You  and  Secunda  represent  two  distinct 
schools:  I  will  take  you  to  Beerbohm  Tree's 
Shakespeare,  where  the  shoe-buckles  are  museum 
pieces  and  the  water  comes  direct  from  the  Grand 
Canal.  Everything  is  much  too  heavy  to  flap  in 
the  wind,  there." 

A  subdued  chuckle  from  the  seats  behind  re 
minds  Our  Mother  that  some  one  not  of  the  Hip 
podrome-audience  type  is  getting  more  entertain 
ment  than  his  ticket  calls  for,  and  she  lowers  her 
voice. 


200  ON     OUR    HILL 

"And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres 
To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music.  .  .  ." 

"Isn't  that  lovely,  girls?" 

"Not  to  me,"  says  Prima  promptly.  "That's 
the  trouble  with  Shakespeare  plays  —  there's  so 
much  talk.  Nobody  goes  about  and  talks  like 
that.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  play." 

"Do  you  know  what  I  think  is  the  best  thing  in 
Shakespeare?"  Secunda  vouchsafes. 

"What,  darling?" 

Several  people  lean  forward  shamelessly.  Our 
chuckling  neighbor  behind  us  says,  "Hush!"  per 
fectly  clearly  to  his  wife. 

"I've  noticed  that  whenever  a  drunken  person 
comes  on,  we  all  laugh,  and  there  usually  is  a 
drunken  person  —  two,  at  least  —  after  a  lot  of 
the  pretty  talking!" 

''You  mean  he  is  better  at  comedy  than  trag 
edy?"  Our  Mother  inquires  humbly. 

"If  tragedy  is  talking  long  poetry  things,  yes." 

'That  is  perfect  Shakespearian  criticism,"  says 
our  neighbor,  leaning  forward.  "Please  don't  try 
to  talk  low"  (here  he  calls  Our  Mother  by  name). 
"We  knew  by  the  children's  names  who  they 
must  be,  from  my  sister,  and  now  we  are  sure. 
Our  name  is. 


EXITS    AND    ENTRANCES     201 

He  owns  more  first  editions  and  folios  than 
anybody  in  this  country. 

We  saw  the  Merchant  whetting  a  Venetian  knife 
on  the  (doubtless)  Venetian  sole  of  his  shoe,  and 
agreed  that  the  trial  scene  was  thrilling,  but  that 
it  was  scarcely  probable  that  two  such  ladylike 
attorneys  as  Portia  and  Nerissa  could  have  de 
ceived  even  a  Venetian  judge.  We  saw  :'The 
Tempest,"  laboriously  reconstructed  after  a  pre 
sumable  sixteenth-century  model,  and  agreed  that 
it  was  good  in  spots,  but  contained  many  irrele 
vant  scenes.  We  saw  an  open-air  version  of  "The 
Taming  of  the  Shrew,"  where,  with  one  tin  table 
and  two  chairs  and  an  amateur  cast  to  support 
him,  a  very  able  actor,  assisted  by  one  Will  Shake 
speare,  of  Avon,  so  presented  Messer  Petruchio  as 
to  send  both  children  into  gales  of  laughter.  The 
tears  of  mirth  rolled  down  Secunda's  cheeks,  and 
she  clapped  her  hands  till  the  audience  shared  her 
enthusiasm,  and  recalled  him  again  and  again. 

"There  must  be  something  in  this  Shakespeare 
idea,  after  all,"  Our  Mother  admits,  watching 
Secunda  mop  her  dancing  eyes. 

Of  course,  we  didn't  go  to  these  plays  with  no 
idea  of  what  we  were  going  to  see. 

No,  we  read  each  one  absolutely  and  entirely 


202  ON    OUR    HILL 

through,  taking  the  parts  ourselves,  out  of  three 
entirely  unexpurgated  volumes,  and  if  you  could 
have  heard  Secunda  declaim: 

"The  law  allows  it  and  the  court  awards  it." 

If  you  could  have  heard  her  laugh  scornfully 
when  Our  Mother  read: 

"Mark,  Jew!    A  Daniel  come  to  judgment!" 

If  you  could  have  heard  Prima  snort  when  Our 
Mother  exulted: 

"  I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word !  .  .  . " 

If,  I  say,  you  could  see  how  quickly  and  deeply 
all  the  important  parts  of  the  play  appealed  to 
them,  and  how  much  real  entertainment  they  got 
out  of  it  all,  you  would  not  complain  that  there 
were  no  more  musical  comedies  for  your  children 
to  see. 

Only,  of  course,  you  must  help  them  a  little. 
Probably  the  little  Greeks  had  to  have  CEdipus  ex 
plained  to  them  a  bit.  Nobody  has  to  explain  a 
row  of  ladies  of  the  chorus,  kicking  their  heels  into 
space,  I  admit  —  they  explain  themselves.  That 
is  why,  one  supposes,  they  don't  get  into  the  dic 
tionaries. 

But  it  is  doubtful  if  we  should  ever  have  ad- 


EXITS    AND     ENTRANCES     203 

mired  even  such  obvious  affairs  as  the  sunsets  and 
the  oceans  if  the  poets  and  painters  had  not  ex 
plained  them  to  us,  dying  in  poverty,  more  often 
than  not,  so  that  we  might  be  the  richer. 

Make  no  mistake,  my  friends;  beauty  can  be 
taught  —  beauty  of  line  and  color,  beauty  of  the 
melody  of  lutes  and  trumpets,  beauty  of  the 
spoken  word,  the  written  phrase.  And  hands 
that  have  tried,  when  they  were  tiny,  to  catch  for 
a  moment  the  robe  of  the  fleeing  goddess,  have 
learned  at  least  the  texture  of  her  garment  and 
will  never  be  deceived  by  the  shoddy  of  the 
mills. 

Nothing  could  be  simpler,  Our  Friends  always 
suppose,  than  forecasting  the  relative  abilities  of 
Prima  and  her  sister.  They  are  two  such  distinct 
types,  you  see,  and  everybody  understands,  or 
thinks  he  understands,  the  earmarks  of  that  popu 
lar  subject  of  discussion,  the  artistic  temperament. 

"Secunda  will  make  a  wonderful  actress,"  they 
say  easily. 

Now,  it  must  be  admitted  that  in  her  first 
French  play  at  school,  where  she  was  a  humble 
member  of  the  mob  in  the  "Sleeping  Beauty  in 
the  Wood,"  Secunda  "brought  down  the  house," 
as  they  say,  at  the  age  of  six  or  so.  She  sat,  sunk 


204  ON     OUR     HILL 

in  the  magical  hundred  years'  dream,  and  never 
raised  an  eyelid.  When  the  Prince  kissed  the  Prin 
cess,  she  lifted  her  head  slowly,  yawned,  gazed 
about  her,  and  stared  with  such  convincing  sur 
prise  at  the  cast  grouped  about  her  that  they  were 
visibly  overcome,  and  one  courtier,  completely  de 
ceived,  shook  her  violently  to  wake  her  !  It  is  also 
true  that  the  next  year,  clad  in  grayish-green  silk 
"tights,"  as  a  glow-worm,  her  few  explosive  sen 
tences  provoked  the  adoring  laughter  that  has  al 
ways  been  her  portion.  But  to  Our  Mother's 
jealous  eye  it  was  quite  clear  that  Secunda  was 
not  acting  —  she  was  merely  being  Secunda  - 
bewitching,  graceful,  provocative  of  eye  and  ges 
ture,  straight  and  sturdy,  a  pleasure  to  behold,  for 
health  and  symmetry.  But  she  was  not  acting. 

And  when,  in  the  Christmas  play  of  the  follow 
ing  year,  Prima,  a  Dutch  peasant  boy,  led  her  on 
as  her  sister,  it  was  surprisingly  clear  that  Prima 
was  acting.  Secunda  smiled  at  the  audience,  gig 
gled,  was  obviously  the  same  little  girl  one  had 
watched  in  the  dancing  class.  But  Prima  was 
little  Hans,  poor  but  honest,  kind  to  lame  witches, 
filled  with  righteous  anger  at  selfish  princesses. 
That  is  to  say,  Prima  has  a  capacity  for  technic 
of  almost  any  sort.  Secunda  looks  like  a  bar  of 


EXITS    AND    ENTRANCES     205 

music,  but  she  plays  the  piano  like  any  little  girl 
who  has  been  taught  to,  and  cries  with  rage  when 
she  forgets  the  notes,  while  from  Prima's  blunt- 


Prima  was  little  Hans,  poor  but  honest 

tipped  fingers  there  fall  the  most  delightful  bell- 
like  sounds  —  firm,  powerful,  convincing.  A  curi 
ous  emotional  quality  is  communicated  to  her 
listeners;  the  room  grows  still. 

I  cannot  tell  you  that  she  feels  more  than  Se- 


206  ON     OUR    HILL 

cunda,  for  I  am  less  and  less  certain,  as  I  grow 
older,  how  much  anybody  feels.  Some  of  us  have 
a  greater  technic  of  expression  than  others.  But 
she  has  that  subtle  and  unmistakable  thing  we 
call  "the  touch";  that  power  of  using  her  tiny 
and  immature  technic,  such  as  it  is,  as  a  vehicle 
merely,  not  an  end.  So  that  many  of  our  grown 
up  friends,  throwing  off  the  fruit  of  many  hours' 
daily  practice  in  octaves  and  cadences,  sound  like 
pianolas  beside  her. 

Again,  Our  Friends  look  at  Secunda's  pointed 
fingers,  and  say: 

"There's  an  artist's  hand  for  you !" 

But  Secunda  is  a  butter-fingers  and  clumsy  with 
a  pencil.  Her  mind  is  quick,  as  lightning  is  quick, 
but  like  the  lightning  its  results  are  too  often 
merely  beautiful  and  destructive. 

But  Prima's  sheet  of  autumn  leaves,  drawn  and 
colored  from  nature  for  Our  Mother's  birthday, 
though  they  are  in  the  beginning  merely  carefully 
accurate,  flower  into  a  tawny  day-lily,  the  next 
year,  that  gives  one  a  sort  of  feeling;  and  by  the 
following  summer  she  has  drawn,  colored,  then 
conventionalized  a  design  of  buttercups  that 
stands  framed  upon  Our  Mother's  bedroom  desk. 
Some  day  your  bedroom  may  be  hung  with  her 


EXITS    AND     ENTRANCES     207 

chintzes.  But  because  her  speech  is  literal  and 
her  mind  fights  each  new  idea  as  the  Red  Indian 
fights  a  bathtub,  you  are  all  convinced  that  she 
has  no  imagination. 

You  see,  unless  you  are  'by  way  of  being  in  the 
productive  line  yourself,  in  which  case  you  realize 
that  it  is  not  in  feeling  things,  but  in  making  other 
people  feel  things,  that  Art  consists,  and  that  this 
means  work,  if  only  in  those  rapid  changes  in  the 
soul's  dressing-room  when  you  jump  out  of  your 
skin  into  theirs  and  then  back  again;  unless,  I  re 
peat,  you  understand  what  it  is  to  be  the  world's 
mirror  —  a  self -polished,  self -revolving  mirror,  cun 
ningly  set  so  that  the  world  may  catch  in  you 
illuminating  glimpses  of  itself  at  unexpected  an 
gles;  unless  you  understand  that  what  you  call 
artistic  temperament  is  only  a  means  and  not  an 
end,  people  like  Prima  will  continually  surprise 
you  and  people  like  Secunda  will  continually  dis 
appoint  you. 

Of  course,  when  Secunda  throws  a  striped  black- 
and-white  silk  petticoat  over  her  head  and  shoul 
ders,  fastens  it  with  a  garter  for  a  headband,  tucks 
her  smock  into  her  bloomers,  and  gallops  across 
the  room  shouting,  "I'm  an  Arab  —  look!"  you 
catch  your  breath. 


208  ON     OUR     HILL 

She  is  an  Arab,  and  you  expect  a  date-palm  and 

a  camel  to  grow  into  the  corner  of  your  bedroom. 

When  she  crams  a  red  stocking  over  her  curly 


"I'm  an  Arab  —  look!" 


head,  so  that  the  toe  hangs  over  her  shoulder,  and 
thrusts  a  great  paper-knife  into  the  bloomers, 
announcing,  "I  am  one  of  those  killing  people 
that  jump  out  suddenly!"  you  look  for  the 


EXITS    AND    ENTRANCES     209 

rest  of  Carmen's  cast  to  emerge  from  behind  the 
bureau. 

When  she  appears  in  a  green  silk  jersey  jacket, 
buttoned  behind,  with  the  rubber  cap  from  the 
shower-bath  cocked  over  one  ear  and  a  crimson 
plume  stuck  into  it  (oh,  heavens,  is  it  pinned  into 
it?),  she  does  not  need  the  cross-bow  she  has  con 
structed  from  a  crooked  bough  and  an  old  shoe- 
lacing.  You  call  out,  "Robin  Hood,"  and  win  a 
pleased  grin. 

"Prima  told  me  to  put  it  hind  side  before  and 
make  a  jerkin.  She  borrowed  the  feather  from 
the  cook.  Pins  don't  really  hurt  rubber,  do  they, 
Muddy  ?  Aren't  I  good  ?  " 

"They  do.     You  are." 

"If  I  had  a  dollar  'n  a  quarter,  I  could  buy  a 
real  bow!" 

"As  long  as  artists  require  models  you  need 
never  suffer  for  bread,"  says  Our  Mother  coldly. 
"Did  you  have  to  use  a  safety-pin?" 

It  was  Prima  who  staged  the  famous  Memorial 
Day  Circus,  staged  and  drilled  and  costumed  it. 

The  invitations,  including  tickets,  five  cents 
each  (for  the  benefit  of  the  American  Fund  for  the 
French  Wounded) ,  were  sent  to  each  bedroom,  and 
one  of  our  two  Little  Sister  Guests  painted  beauti- 


210  ON    OUR    HILL 

ful  gold  horses  on  the  programmes,  which  sold  for 
three  cents  more.  For  days  it  had  been  preparing, 
and  nobody  had  the  remotest  idea  how  good  it 
was  going  to  be. 

There  were  seven  events  on  the  programme  - 
grand   entry,   clown   tricks,   tumbling,   and   acro 
bats,   Indians   and   cowboys,   and   at  the  last- 
dancing  and  poetry ! 

Prima  painted  Bakst-like  spots  all  over  a  set  of 
Tertius's  pajamas,  for  one  clown  suit,  and  Cousin 
Quartus  had  a  real  Pierrot  dress,  in  yellow  and 
black,  of  his  own.  Prima,  in  her  French  play  cos 
tume  of  the  King  of  the  Pumpkins,  a  brilliant 
orange  figure,  led  the  pony,  where  Secunda  sat 
enthroned,  a  vision  of  blush-pink  crape  paper  with 
a  green  bud  for  a  cap :  the  spirit  of  the  rose. 

The  week-end  Guests  sat  on  the  porch  directly 
in  front  of  the  ring,  which  was  the  oval  entrance 
drive,  feeding  quick,  brassy  records  into  the 
phonograph,  waiting  patiently.  When  one  tall, 
thin  Sister  Guest  walked  slowly  around,  her  shoul 
ders  draped  in  our  best  motor  rug,  and,  suddenly, 
bowing  low,  shot  up  into  a  woman  seven  feet  tall, 
they  applauded  wildly.  Prima  had  constructed  a 
framework  beneath  the  rug  and  a  painted  face  on 
top,  so  that  the  child  unfolded  like  an  accordion. 


EXITS    AND     ENTRANCES     211 

When  Cousin  Quartus  solemnly  waddled  around 
the  ring,  his  double-jointed  ankles  turned  inside 
out,  his  slender  feet  pointing  every  way  but  the 


Tertius  sits  like  a  statue  of  victory! 

right  way,  we  realized  that  the  commercial  value 
of  what  had  hitherto  been  treated  as  a  disability 
had  been  seized  with  all  a  Barnum's  perspicacity. 
Now  Little  Sister  Guest  and  Tertius,  two  deli 
cious  clowns,  drag  in  the  old  rocking-horse,  and  ar 
range  in  serious  and  perfect  pantomime  the  terms 


ON    OUR    HILL 


of  a  race  from  tree  to  tree,  one  mounted,  the  other 
on  foot.  At  a  given  signal  the  Little  Guest  lopes 
clumsily  away,  and  as  soon  as  her  back  is  turned 
Tertius  slides  off  the  horse,  reverses  its  nose  like 
lightning,  to  touch  the  winning  tree,  and  sits  like  a 
statue  of  victory  !  The  audience  claps  its  hands 
sore.  The  beaten  clown,  after  one  more  attempt, 
indicates  that  he  will  ride,  Tertius  gravely  agrees, 
and  at  the  signal,  speeds  like  the  wind  to  the  oppo 
site  tree,  leaving  his  opponent,  who  does  not  know 
the  trick,  stupidly  rooted  to  a  motionless  steed  ! 

It  is  a  real  conception,  a  typical  clown  act,  one 
we  have  never  seen  before.  And  who  invented  it  ? 
Who  but  Prima,  the  obstinately  literal  !  Behind 
the  evergreens  that  mask  the  kitchen  ell  and  make 
their  greenroom,  she  stands;  hers  is  the  beckon 
ing  finger  that  calls  them  back,  hers  the  com 
manding  wave  that  admits  an  encore. 

Now  come  the  acrobats,  and  Secunda  leaps  the 
old  garden-bench  and  revolves  in  three  airy  hand 
springs  as  she  lands,  in  a  curiously  effective  remi 
niscence  of  the  sawdust.  Now  Quartus,  gravely 
grinning,  does  his  famous  nineteen  consecutive 
somersaults. 

Now  Indians  file  around  the  council-fire  (two 
braves  and  a  squaw  in  complete  war-rig)  ,  and  Se- 


EXITS    AND     ENTRANCES 

cunda  whoops  and  pats  the  green  turf  and  bends 
amazingly  from  her  supple  waist.  They  flee  be 
hind  the  Austrian  pine,  and  Prima  and  Big  Sister 
Guest  in  cowboy  "chaps"  and  United  States  khaki 
scout  knowingly  among  the  telltale  ashes. 

"Redskins  have  been  here,  Captain,"  says  the 
cowboy  briefly,  and  the  plump  and  pistolled  cap 
tain  mutters: 

"Yes,  but  we'll  get  them!" 

Bang,  bang,  bang ! 

Whoop,  whoop ! 

The  red  men  stagger  and  fall,  their  arrows  scat 
tered  helplessly  beside  them.  The  scout  and  cap 
tain  shake  hands  and  bow  gravely. 

The  audience  cheers  loudly. 

"Really,  you  know,  this  is  extraordinary !"  says 
Our  Foreign  Guest.  "I  never  enjoyed  myself  so 
much  in  my  life!  D'you  mean  to  say  they  had 
no  help?" 

Now  there  is  a  long  wait.  We  play  Russian 
music  on  the  phonograph  and  smoke  cigarettes. 
What  is  the  next  ?  Ah,  yes,  "poetry  and  dancing." 

They  enter  solemnly  and  sit  in  line  on  the  gar 
den-bench.  Big  Sister  Guest  rises  and  announces, 
pale  with  stage  fright: 

" Abou-ben-Adhem!  " 


214  ONOURHILL 

The  audience  gulps,  but  controls  its  countenance. 

Prima,  somewhat  flushed,  her  dancing-school 
frock  imperfectly  fastened,  twists  one  leg  around 
the  other  and  proclaims: 

"The  Village  Blacksmith!" 

"Oh,  no!  Impossible!"  somebody  murmurs, 
but  Prima  moves  relentlessly  through  this  depress 
ing  masterpiece,  sparing  not  a  line.  They  prompt 
each  other  marvellously.  Each  child,  apparently, 
is  a  storehouse  of  classic  doggerel. 

"Toiling,  rejoicing,  sorrowing, 
Onward  through  life  he  —  er  — 
Onward  through  life  he  .  .  ." 

"Goes!"  comes  a  hollow  whisper. 
"Oh,  yes,  goes. 

"  *  Each  morning  sees  some  task  begun, 
Each  evening  sees  it  close, 
Something  attempted,  something  done, 
Has  earned  a  night's  repose/     Lord  Tennyson!" 

she  concludes  breathlessly,  and  Our  Mother  be 
comes  frankly  hysterical. 

Now  Secunda,  who  sits  side-saddle  on  the  bench, 
like  a  Degas  ballet  dancer,  is  urged,  nay,  poked 
violently,  to  go  on. 

But  she  will  not. 


EXITS     AND     ENTRANCES 

The  real  artistic  temperament  is  about  to  exhibit 
itself  before  the  interested  audience. 

"Secunda,  you  must!" 

"Goon,  'Cunda!" 

She  twitches  her  soft  pink  shoulder;  she  scowls 
like  a  fury.  Her  abbreviated  skirt  is  petalled  like 
a  rose  and  her  pink-silk  leg  kicks  viciously  at  the 
actor-manager.  The  green -and -pink  rosebud  cap 
tips  over  her  bronze  fluff  of  hair  at  an  angle  to 
undermine  the  principles  of  the  most  ascetic. 

"By  Jove,  is  she  acting?  The  little  witch!" 
Our  Foreign  Guest  whispers. 

"She  doesn't  have  to,"  says  Our  Mother. 

"If  that's  not  a  prima  donna  for  you!"  ob 
serves  somebody  els*e. 

"Offer  her  two  thousand  and  a  percentage, 
Prima  !"  suggests  Our  Mother  cynically. 

Now  a  few  passionate  tears  spurt  from  her 
angry  violet  eyes;  she  will  not,  she  will  not,  she 
will  not! 

"Oh,  all  right,"  mutters  the  actor-manager. 
"Let  her  alone,  the  little  pig!  Come  on,  Ter- 
tius." 

And  Tertius  arises. 

A  sigh  of  pleasure  exhales  from  the  audience. 
He  is  so  lovely,  the  darling  thing ! 


216  ON    OUR    HILL 

The  hazel-green  suit  that  Secunda  wore  as  a 
glow-worm  encases  his  exquisite  little  body,  his 
baby  arms  and  neck,  still  (but,  oh,  for  so  short  a 
time  now!)  dimpled,  emerge,  bare,  like  rosebuds 
and  sea-shells,  soft,  like  nothing  but  themselves. 
His  face  is  perfectly  grave  and  a  little  pale. 

"He  looks  like  Parsifal  —  dressed  as  Nijinsky !" 
Our  Foreign  Guest  bursts  out. 

His  great  eyes  open  wider.  He  is  about  to 
begin. 

"But  what  can  he  recite?"  Our  Mother  babbles 
nervously.  "He  doesn't  know  any  poetry  !" 

Now  he  makes  a  quaint  little  bow. 

"The  Twenty-third  Psalm"  he  says  gently,  "by 
Tertius!" 

"Oh,  no  !  I  can't  bear  it !  It  isn't  true !"  Our 
Mother  gasps. 

But  it  is  true. 

"  The  Lord  is  my  shepherd,  I  shall  not  want" 
begins  that  lovely,  soft  alto.  "He  maketh  me  to 
lie  down  in  green  pastures.  He  leadeth  me  beside 
the  still  waters.  ..." 

Everybody  leans  forward,  breathless.  Under 
the  turquoise  sky,  with  great  green  boughs  sway 
ing  high  above  him,  that  baby  stands  in  hazel- 
green  tights  and  recites  one  of  the  greatest  of  the 


EXITS    AND     ENTRANCES     219 

Psalms  of  David,  with  a  pure  and  musical  articu 
lation  that  brings  out  every  vowel. 

"  Thou  preparest  a  table  before  me  in  the  presence 
of  mine  enemies.  .  .  ." 

Oh,  the  dimples  in  his  elbows ! 

"  My  cup  runneth  over.  .  .  ." 

He  is  like  a  Donatello  faun --but  his  voice  is 
the  voice  of  the  cherubim. 

"Surely  goodness  and  mercy  shall  follow  me  all 
the  days  of  my  life,  and  I  shall  dwell  in  the  house  of 
the  Lord  forever,"  he  concludes,  and  adds  gently: 
"By  Tertius,"  bowing  again  his  quaint  little  bow. 
He  has  done  his  best.  He  has  recited  the  only 
piece  he  knows  for  the  Circus. 

Our  Mother  weeps  and  laughs  and  weeps  again, 
while  everybody  pats  her  consolingly. 

"There,  there,  he's  perfectly  wonderful,"  they 
say.'  "Of  course,  of  course!" 

"D— d— do  you  th-think  he'll  die?"  she  gulps. 

"Oh,  no,  no!  He  won't  die,"  they  soothe 
her. 

"Really,  I  wouldn't  have  missed  that  for  a 
hundred  dollars !  Aren't  children  extraordinary 
things  ?  You  ought  to  be  proud  of  'em,  by  Jove ! 
Do  you  know,  I'll  never  forget  this.  Haven't  you 
got  a  camera,  somebody?" 


220  ON     OUR    HILL 

But  mothers  have  no  need  of  cameras.  Peas 
ant  or  patrician  or  Queen  of  Heaven,  alike,  they 
keep  all  these  things  and  ponder  them  in  their 
hearts ! 


MAGIC     CASEMENTS 


RESURGAM 

ENG  ago  didst  thou  leave  us,  Cinderella ! 
Long  ago  fled  Puss  in  his  Boots,  the  valiant, 
Long  ago  did  the  Three  Bears,  faintly  growling, 
Vanish  forever ! 

Far  away  from  us  now  floats  the  Little  Mermaid, 
Far  away  on  her  icy  sledge  the  Snow  Queen, 
Far  away  has  the  Ugly  Duckling  fluttered, 
Never  returning. 

Where  is  Robin's  band  in  the  Merrie  Greenwood? 
Where  is  Richard,  the  King,  the  Lion-hearted? 
Where  is  Galahad  gone  and  where  is  Tristan, 
Lover  and  martyr? 

Ah,  but  who  weeps  thee  now,  Pandora,  sister? 
Ah,  but  who  censures  Psyche,  the  goddess  driven? 
Ah,  but  who  thrills  at  Hercules  the  hero, 
Lion-clad  victor ! 

Now  we  are  old,  to-day's  poor  tattlings  tempt  us; 
Now  we  are  old,  the  Gods  have  lost  their  glamour; 
Now  we  are  old  .  .  .  oh,  Great  Ones,  never  forsake  us 
Keep  us  in  springtime ! 


MAGIC    CASEMENTS 

"^  INHERE  aren't  any  fairies  —  any  more,  are 
-•-  there?"  asks  Tertius. 

"Perhaps  not  —  any  more,"  says  Our  Mother, 
and  she  fell  to  thinking  why  this  should  be. 

Of  course,  you  would  not  insult  us  by  beginning 
to  talk  about  X-rays  and  the  telephone  and  wire 
less  telegraphy.  None  of  these  things  makes  the 
slightest  difference,  really.  The  X-ray  is  very 
young,  to-day  —  a  half-developed  magic.  She  can 
show  us  but  our  skeletons,  which  we  knew  all 
about  before;  and  she  hints  at  our  intestines,  which 
we  had  surmised.  By  the  time  we  call  her  in  to 
explore  those  mysterious  miles  of  our  underground 
factory  where  health  is  in  process  of  making  or 
destruction,  she  can  only  confirm  what  we  had 
sadly  guessed. 

Had  we  been  able  to  keep  her  out,  she  need 
never  have  come  in.  Had  we  sucked  in  great 
lungfuls  of  the  clean  breath  God  breathes  about 
this  restless  planet  (do  you  know  what  the  air  is 
—  and  why  ?) ,  had  we  pumped  it  through  those 
red  rivers  that  rush  so  furiously  from  top  to  toe 
of  us,  morning,  noon,  and  night  (do  you  know 

225 


ON     OUR    HILL 

what  keeps  blood  flowing?),  had  we  thrilled  to 
that  red  mystery,  the  piston  of  our  life,  so  that  it 
pounded  with  the  majestic  beat  of  nobler  and 
nobler  impulse  (do  you  know  what  makes  your 
heart  beat  ?)  -  -  the  exquisite  crash  and  balance 
and  sway  of  these  extraordinary  mechanisms  we 
call  our  bodies  would  have  been  so  sweetly  tuned 
and  adjusted  that  the  result  would  require  no 
more  dissection  than  a  sunset. 

What  the  X-ray  fairy  is  trying  to  do  is  to  go  in 
a  little  deeper  and  show  us  our  ghosts;  that  is,  to 
prove  to  the  incredulous  among  us  that  we  have 
ghosts  —  a  fact  so  well  known  to  our  ancestors  that 
they  explained  it  to  their  babies  in  nursery -tales ! 

But  Science  is  so  slow,  so  slow ! 

Of  course,  the  telephone  is  very  wonderful.  It 
must  be,  because  everybody  says  so,  even  the  men 
that  invented  it.  Instead  of  calling  into  the  next 
room,  "What  time  is  it?"  you  ring  a  bell  and  say: 
"Will  you  please  give  me  the  time,  Central?" 
And  a  little  dry  old  voice  like  a  parrot's  crackles 
back  at  you:  "Nine  fifty-eight." 

For  years  I  did  this  every  morning,  under  the 
impression  that  I  was  getting  in  this  way  the 
superlative,  concentrated  essence  of  correct  time: 
time  absolute,  so  to  say,  where  They  made  it. 


MAGIC     CASEMENTS          229 

And  then,  one  day,  I  found  out  that  Central,  on 
these  occasions,  consulted  a  small  celluloid  alarm- 
clock  on  her  desk,  which  she  set  by  guess,  when 
she  came  into  the  office,  and  corrected  with  the 
assistance  of  a  speculative  office-boy  and  a  Water- 
bury  watch. 

That  is  why  I  always  feel  that  you  never  know 
where  Science  is  leading  you !  And  in  the  Mid 
dle  Ages  they  burned  scientific  men  at  the  stake 
from  much  the  same  impulses  of  incredulity  and 
irritation ! 

I  sat  at  an  enormous  banquet-table  in  New  York 
once,  where  we  all  fitted  little  black  disks  to  our 
ears  and  listened  to  one  of  our  number  who  ad 
dressed  a  question  to  some  one  in  San  Francisco. 
For  this  epoch-making  event  the  wires  had  been 
cleared  across  three  thousand  miles  of  space,  and 
no  other  words  but  this  one  man's  might  travel 
across  the  rivers  and  prairies  and  mountains  and 
deserts.  It  was  like  the  red-velvet  carpet  one 
spreads  before  the  feet  of  the  kings  of  the  earth. 

And  this  is  what  we  heard  him  say: 

"Hello,  Mr.  Smith!" 

Mr.  Smith  squeaked  back,  "Hello!"  from  San 
Francisco. 

"How's  the  weather  out  there,  Mr.  Smith?" 


230  ON     OUR     HILL 

And  Mr.  Smith,  in  a  wheezy  chirp  that  sighed 
through  the  immemorial  redwoods  of  California 
and  echoed  back  from  the  jagged  peaks  of  the 
Rockies,  answered: 

"Fine!" 

And  I  felt  that  the  Ancients  in  their  sculptured 
tombs  were  yawning  at  us. 

Wireless  telegraphy,  if  you  like,  begins  to  look 
as  if  it  might  be  really  mysterious  one  day.  As 
long  as  a  thing  needs  copper  wire  I  refuse  to 
admit  that  it  is  anything  more  than  a  high-grade 
adventure. 

But  even  wireless  telegraphy  can  only  help  you 
to  find  out  what  I  say.  You  never  can  know 
what  I  think  by  it.  When  the  fairy  grows  up  to 
such  point  that  I  cannot  conceal  my  thought  from 
you  I  will  begin  to  thrill  to  it;  when  it  can  reach 
out  and  tap  the  stored  thought  of  the  race,  I  will 
stand  amazed;  when  it  can  tremblingly  extend  its 
magic  antennae  across  the  crawling  fogs  of  Form 
and  the  chilly  mists  of  Time  and  the  empty  voids 
of  Space,  and  tell  me  if  there  is  anything  beyond 
and  hint  at  what  it  is  —  then,  like  the  prophets,  I 
will  cover  my  eyes  and  worship. 

"How  does  the  'mometer  know  how  cold  it  is?" 
muses  Tertius. 


MAGIC     CASEMENTS          231 

"It's  the  mercury,  silly --that  sort  of  little 
button-thing,"  Prima  informs  him. 

"Mercury  is  a  god,"  says  Secunda,  "a  Greek 
god;  isn't  he,  Muddy?' 

Tertius  looks  puzzled. 

"Oh,  well,  God  knows  everything,"  he  concludes 
amiably. 

Long  ago  it  was  that  we  read  of  the  Greek  gods, 
long  ago ! 

Secunda  has  since  gone  through  Miss  Alcoit's 
harmless  tales,  which,  with  the  exception  of  the 
immortal  "Little  Women,"  Our  Mother  can't 
read  any  more.  Prima  has  begun  to  ask  for 
"something  exciting,  couldn't  we,  and  not  for 
children?" 

They  pore  over  stories  for  girls,  which  are  to  be 
distinguished  from  each  other  by  the  costumes  of 
the  girl  heroines  alone,  skipping  any  poetry  that 
may  occur. 

"But,  darlings,  all  that  stuff  is  just  alike,"  Our 
Mother  complains. 

"Well,  I  s'pose  there  aren't  so  many  different 
things  to  say  about  girls,  you  know,"  Secunda 
suggests  good-humoredly.  "I  suppose  a  good 
many  girls  are  alike." 

It    seems    so    long    since  we    sat    on    the    big 


232  ON    OUR    HILL 

veranda,  in  the  hot,  blue  afternoons  after  tea, 
Prima  stretched  out  rotundly  on  a  chaise-longue, 
Secunda  perched  on  some  projecting  corner,  Ter- 
tius  musing  in  his  little  chair.  They  used  to  look 
like  the  listening  children  in  expensive  illustrated 
gift -books,  their  legs  were  so  pink  and  firm  above 
their  white  socks,  their  hair  was  so  fluffy  and 
square-cut  around  their  plump  pink  cheeks,  their 
eyes  so  gravely  attentive. 

Our  Mother's  eyes  slip  from  the  page  to  their 
faces,  from  their  faces  to  the  great  white  pillars, 
so  round  and  pure  against  the  blue. 

"This  is  just  like  Greece,  children,"  she  says 
suddenly.  "If  the  columns  were  only  broken,  it 
might  be  the  Parthenon !" 

"A  great  many  beautiful  things  seem  to  be 
broken,"  Secunda  murmurs.  "I  wonder  why?" 

"Oh,  prob'ly  everybody  patted  them,  and  so 
after  a  while  they  got  worn  out,"  Tertius  suggests 
helpfully.  "You  pat  a  kitten  a  good  deal  and  it 
gets  sick." 

"And  now,  a  slice  of  your  brown  loaf,  pray,  Mother  Bau 
cis,  and  a  little  honey,"  asked  Mercury. 

Baucis  handed  the  loaf,  and  though  it  had  been  rather  a 
hard  and  dry  loaf  when  she  and  her  husband  ate  some  at 
tea-time,  it  was  now  as  soft  and  new  as  if  it  had  just  come 


MAGIC     CASEMENTS          233 

from  the  oven.  As  to  the  honey,  it  had  become  the  color  of 
new  gold  and  had  the  scent  of  a  thousand  flowers,  and  the 
small  grapes  in  the  bunch  had  grown  larger  and  richer,  and 
each  one  seemed  bursting  with  a  ripe  juice. 

"There  ought  to  be  milk  and  purple  grapes  and 
honey  here,  now,"  says  Our  Mother.  "Perhaps  if 
there  were,  with  these  high  white  columns  and  the 
sky  so  blue,  the  gods  might  come  again  !" 

"Read  about  the  wish  they  made,"  Secunda 
begs,  and  we  read: 

Philemon  and  Baucis  looked  at  one  another,  and  then  I 
do  not  know  which  spoke,  but  it  seemed  as  if  the  voice 
came  from  them  both. 

"Let  us  live  together  while  we  live,  and  let  us  die  together, 
at  the  same  time,  for  we  have  always  loved  one  another." 

Classical  scholars  assure  one  that  Hawthorne 
gave  a  sugary  atmosphere  to  his  "Tangle wood 
Tales,"  but  Our  Mother,  even  when  she  came  to 
read  Greek,  in  the  days  when  one  had  time  to 
read  Greek,  found  that  it  was  all  as  she  knew  it 
would  be.  That  violet  sea,  those  white-armed 
goddesses,  the  honey  and  the  shepherds  and  the 
dryads  whose  soft  breasts  were  overgrown  with 
cruel  bark  —  she  learned  them  all  from  the 
"Wonder  Book"  her  mother  read  to  her. 

But  here  we  find  a  difference.     More  than  hap- 


234  ON    OUR    HILL 

piness  itself  Our  Mother  loved  the  pathos  of  the 
legends.  Beauty,  in  its  depths,  must  produce 
sadness,  and  this  sadness  is  not  the  sadness  of 
rain-on-a-picnic-day,  or  your  mother's  frown,  or 
no-chocolates-in-the-box.  No,  it  is  a  happy  sad 
ness,  a  poignant  perfection  of  sadness,  a  necessary 
sadness. 

Lo,  and  behold,  Our  Family  does  not  care  for 
these  emotions. 

"If  you're  going  to  read  about  that  little  Pros 
erpine  that  goes  down  into  the  ground,  I'm  not 
going  to  listen,"  says  Prima,  gulping  ominously. 
"I  think  it's  too  sorrowful." 

"But,  dearest,  it's  so  lovely!" 

"I  don't  see  anything  lovely  about  a  little  girl 
that  can't  ever  see  her  mother.  It's  not  fair,  just 
because  you  eat  one  little  pomegranate  seed,  never 
to  see  your  mother!"  she  bursts  out.  "And  the 
bull  carried  little  Europa  away,  too,  and  she  never 
saw  her  mother  again !  If  I  wouldn't  like  a  thing 
to  happen  to  me,  I  don't  care  to  read  about  it, 
myself." 

It  had  never  occurred  to  you,  perhaps,  to  re 
gard  the  entire  mythology  of  the  Greeks  from  the 
standpoint  of  the  amount  of  maternal  separation 
involved,  but  once  considered  in  that  light,  the  lit- 


MAGIC     CASEMENTS 

erature  of  that  great  people  becomes  one  heart 
rending  series  of  orphanings. 

And  here  again  the  fairies  troubled  us.  All  the 
beautiful  fairy-tales  are  sad  —  did  you  realize  it? 
"Blue  Beard"  and  "Cinderella"  turn  out  well,  of 
course,  but  they  are  not  really  beautiful. 

Hans  Andersen,  surely  one  of  the  great  poets 
of  his  generation,  is  as  sad  as  the  Greeks.  "The 
Little  Mermaid"  and  "The  Snow  Queen,"  still 
sources  of  pure  and  exquisite  joy  to  Our  Mother, 
were  really  too  painful  to  Our  Family;  even  Se- 
cunda  twisted  uneasily  in  her  chair  and  said  she'd 
rather  have  a  little  more  "Swiss  Family  Robin 
son."  To  Our  Mother  the  vivid  colors  and  won 
derful  deep  words  of  "The  Snow  Queen,"  the 
curious,  powerful  atmosphere  that  mixes,  as  only 
the  Anglo-Saxon  can,  simple,  homely  facts  of 
peasant  life  with  the  ineffable,  jewelled  tints  of 
faery,  the  light  that  never  was  (and  yet  men  and 
women  have  always  known  how  to  paint  it !)  - 
to  Our  Mother,  I  say,  this  tale  has  a  beauty  too 
profound  for  analysis.  It  is  as  distinct  a  thing 
by  itself,  as  real  a  thing,  as  any  strain  of  Chopin 
or  drawing  of  Diirer  or  pot  of  beans  baked  by  a 
New  England  wife. 

Often  and  often  Our  Mother  has  tried,  as  a 


236  ON     OUR     HILL 

worker  in  words,  to  search  into  the  roots  of  that 
wonderful,  definite  charm,  never  to  be  found  in 
French  or  Italian  or  Spanish  fairy-tales  —  no,  nor 
Russian,  either.  It  is  utterly  lacking  to  the  Ori 
ental  mind,  and  perhaps  that  is  why  we  could 
never  take  the  "Arabian  Nights"  seriously  in 
Our  Family.  They  are  ingenious  and  witty  and 
colorful,  but  we  could  never  thrill  to  them.  It  is 
so  difficult  to  care  what  happens  to  any  of  them, 
you  see,  any  more  than  one  cares  for  the  fate  of 
chessmen. 

But  poor,  poor  Little  Thumbling!  Passed  on 
from  Field-Mouse  to  Mole,  working  her  way  so 
good-temperedly,  so  patiently,  yet  never  where 
she  would  be,  never  where  she  can  love  as  she 
knows  how  to  love  —  oh,  even  when  the  beautiful 
Swallow  carries  her  to  the  South,  and  she  is  to  be 
happy,  somehow,  it  has  been  a  sad  little  story ! 

To  Our  Mother  the  greens  and  glooms  of  the 
depths  beneath  the  sea  were  as  well  known  as  if 
she  had  been  born  there,  for  she  had  lived  and 
loved  and  died  so  often  with  the  Little  Mermaid! 

One  night  her  sisters  came  arm  in  arm,  singing  most 
mournfully  as  they  glided  over  the  water.  She  beckoned 
to  them  and  they  recognized  her  and  told  her  how  sad  she 
had  made  them  all.  After  that  they  visited  her  every  night; 


MAGIC    CASEMENTS          237 

and  one  night  she  saw  far  away  her  old  grandmother,  who 
had  not  been  to  the  surface  for  many  years,  and  the  sea  king, 
with  his  crown  on  his  head.  They  stretched  out  their  hands 
toward  her,  but  did  not  venture  so  near  land  as  her  sisters. 

And  the  frozen  mysteries  of  the  North,  how 
well  Our  Mother  understood  them !  Had  she  not 
trembled  on  the  kindly  reindeer  straight  through 
Finland  and  Lapland  with  the  little  Gerda,  search 
ing  for  her  Kay,  a  slave  to  the  wicked,  brilliant 
queen  in  her  icy  palace  ? 

"I  fancy  there  is  somebody  coming  behind  us,"  said  Gerda, 
as  she  felt  something  sweep  past  her.  Shadows  of  horses  with 
flying  manes  and  the  thin  legs  of  huntsmen,  and  ladies  and 
gentlemen  on  horseback  seemed  to  glide  past  her  on  the  wall. 

"They  are  only  dreams,"  said  the  crow,  "they  come  to 
fetch  the  thought  of  our  royal  folk  to  go  a-hunting." 

Our  Mother  found  the  Bayeux  tapestries  in 
that  little  picture,  and  sometimes  she  thinks  that 
Secunda  does,  too. 

And  this  brings  us  back  to  the  beginning.  Why 
are  there  no  fairies  —  any  more  ? 

This,  I  think,  is  the  reason:  Because  nobody 
can  write  about  them  any  more.  Since  Alice  the 
Great  walked  through  her  Looking-Glass  and  into 
her  Wonderland,  what  chronicler  has  handed  on 
the  sacred  torch? 


238  ON     OUR    HILL 

When  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling  wrote  "The  Brush 
wood  Boy,"  I  began  to  think  he  might  have 
caught  the  spark,  but  he  never  did  it  again.  And 
to  those  of  us  whom  Charles  Kingsley  and  George 
Macdonald  and  Jean  Ingelow  led  into  the  mystic 
country  of  familiar  things  made  magical  by  the 
one,  vivid,  eerie  word  that  each  thing  needs,  to 
show  us  what  it  really  is  when  it  is  alone  —  to  us, 
I  fear,  all  the  Peter  Pans  of  all  the  Christmas 
holidays  must  creak  a  little  on  their  canvas 
wheels. 

I  suppose  the  northern  races  are  born  symbol 
ists.  And  no  symbol  can  be  quite  beautiful  or 
compelling  if  one  perfectly  understands  it. 

Take,  for  example,  that  lovely  play,  "The  Blue 
Bird."  Monsieur  Maeterlinck  makes  it  quite 
clear  that  the  bluebird  is  the  symbol  for  happiness, 
and  as  no  one  finds  happiness  for  long  on  this 
planet,  no  one  can  ever  find  the  bluebird.  Q.  E.  D. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Monsieur  Maeter 
linck  is  an  artist  of  a  higher  degree  of  technical 
skill  than  George  Macdonald.  But  I  have  never 
met  the  child  who  would  thrill  to  any  event  in 
"The  Blue  Bird"  as  he  will  thrill  to  "The  Princess 
and  the  Goblin"  and  "At  the  Back  of  the  North 
Wind." 


MAGIC     CASEMENTS          239 

"Don't  you  see  the  lovely  fire  of  roses  —  white  ones 
amongst  them  this  time?"  asked  Irene,  almost  as  bewildered 
as  he. 

"No,  I  don't,"  answered  Curdie  almost  sulkily. 

"Nor  the  blue  bath?  Nor  the  rose-colored  counterpane? 
Nor  the  beautiful  light,  like  the  moon,  hanging  from  the 
roof?" 

"You're  making  game  of  me,  your  Royal  Highness 

"Then  what  do  you  see?" 

"  I  see  a  big  bare  garret  room  —  like  the  one  in  mother's 
cottage  — 

"And  what  more  do  you  see?" 

"I  see  a  tub,  and  a  heap  of  musty  straw,  and  a  withered 
apple,  and  a  ray  of  sunlight  coming  through  a  hole  in  the 
middle  of  the  roof,  and  shining  on  your  head,  and  making 
all  the  place  look  a  curious  dusky  brown " 

"But  don't  you  hear  my  grandmother  talking  to  me?" 
asked  Irene,  almost  crying. 

"No,  I  hear  the  cooing  of  a  lot  of  pigeons." 

I  was  not  always  sure  what  he  meant  in  "The 
Princess  and  Curdie."  But  I  felt  in  the  presence 
of  some  great  universal  law,  I  sensed  vast  corre 
spondences  between  vivid,  concrete  things  of 
every  day  and  the  mighty  formulae  that  rule  the 
worlds  as  they  spin  through  history.  Those  north 
ern  seers  reach  out  to  truths  so  misty  that  one 
could  not  grasp  them  and  still  be  mortal;  and  yet 
(and  just  here  is  their  extraordinary  adaptability 
to  childhood)  they  cloak  them  in  such  blunt  and 


240  ON    OUR    HILL 

cheery  realism  that  the  most  valued  maxims  of 
the  nursery  emerge  from  their  thumbed  pages ! 

The  Greek  is  a  fatalist;  the  Oriental  is  perforce 
a  cynic,  with  his  fragrant  and  rainbowed  phrases; 
but  the  Anglo-Saxon,  among  mists  and  moors  of 
the  brooding  North,  persists  in  the  belief  that 
Man  shall  conquer  Fate  and  that  in  his  bosom  is 
that  which  shall  teach  him  how. 

Almost  the  first  book  we  ever  read  was  "The 
Princess  and  the  Goblin,"  and  Tertius  was  too 
young  to  listen.  We  were  deeply  entertained  and 
yet,  through  it  all,  indubitably  convinced  that 
truth  was  the  highest  chivalry,  kindness  the  only 
essential  weapon,  and  obedience,  unquestioning 
obedience,  the  mark  of  the  successful  leader. 

When  Our  Mother  realizes  that  there  are  — 
there  must  be  —  children  who  have  not  read  "At 
the  Back  of  the  North  Wind,"  she  feels  that 
there  should  be  a  society  founded,  with  a  presi 
dent  and  by-laws  and  a  recording  secretary,  to 
see  that  every  child  under  twelve  should  own  a 
copy. 

Of  course  it  is  doubtless  a  very  good  thing  to  be 
able  to  distinguish  a  red  squirrel  from  a  chipmunk. 
Although,  considering  the  number  of  human  beings 
who  seldom  establish  very  intimate  relations  with 


MAGIC     CASEMENTS          241 

either  animal,  Our  Mother  wonders  sometimes 
just  why  this  passionate  interest  in  them  and  the 
hedgehog  and  the  kingfisher  and  the  red-breasted 
something-or-other  should  be  forced  down  all  our 
children's  throats  in  so  much  badly  written  Eng 
lish.  But  this  may  be  nothing  but  jealousy  on 
Our  Mother's  part,  arising  from  the  fact  that  she 
has  always  divided  the  animals,  like  Gaul  of  old, 
into  three  parts  —  big  ones,  middle-sized  ones, 
and  little  ones.  Miss  Goldilocks,  you  may  remem 
ber,  used  the  same  method  in  her  studies  of  the 
bear  family  many  years  ago. 

In  Our  Family's  nursery  university  we  took  a 
comprehensive  course  in  wolves,  under  Professor 
Mowgli,  in  the  "Jungle  Books";  mastered  Bre'r 
Fox  under  Uncle  Remus,  and  specialized  in  dragons 
and  sea-monsters  under  Perseus,  Medea,  and  Sieg 
fried.  Then  we  did  a  little  laboratory  work  at 
the  Zoo  in  the  Bronx  Park,  polished  off  with  a 
brief  postgraduate  visit  to  the  Natural  History 
Museum,  and  considered  ourselves  ready  to  meet 
the  world  in  general  conversation  about  any  ani 
mal  important  enough  to  have  got  into  the  story 
books. 

When  Little  Diamond,  who  drove  his  father's 
cab  through  the  dirty  London  streets  and  cut 


ON     OUR    HILL 


bread  and  cheese  for  his  luncheon,  was  called  to 
his  tiny  stable  window  in  the  crowded  mews,  to 
float  away  through  the  air  with  the  wonderful 
North  Wind,  whose  black  hair,  blown  shrieking 
across  the  midnight  sky,  tossed  the  ships  at  sea, 
while  her  soft  breath  made  the  evening  primrose 
nod,  she  would  often  drop  to  the  ground  with  him. 

She  descended  on  a  grassy  hillock,  in  the  midst  of  a  wild, 
furzy  common.  There  was  a  rabbit-warren  underneath,  and 
some  of  the  rabbits  came  out  of  their  holes,  in  the  moon 
light,  looking  very  sober  and  wise,  just  like  patriarchs  stand 
ing  in  their  tent  doors  and  looking  about  them  before  going 
to  bed.  When  they  saw  North  Wind,  instead  of  turning 
around  and  vanishing  again  with  a  thump  of  their  heels, 
they  cantered  slowly  up  to  her  and  snuffed  all  about  her 
with  their  long  upper  lips,  which  moved  every  way  at  once. 
That  was  their  way  of  kissing  her;  and,  as  she  talked  to 
Diamond,  she  would  every  now  and  then  stroke  down  their 
furry  backs,  or  lift  and  play  with  their  long  ears. 

This  being  its  own  picture,  the  illustrator  was 
clever  enough  to  leave  it  alone,  and  Our  Mother 
made  her  own  drawings  in  strokes  that  memory 
has  held  for  thirty  years. 

Nobody  who  followed  the  little  boy  on  his 
lonely,  fearsome  walk  along  the  clerestory  ledge 
of  a  midnight  cathedral,  and  saw  in  the  old  wood 
cut  his  small  nightgowned  figure  lying  alone  under 


MAGIC     CASEMENTS          243 

the  Gothic  arches,  could  fail  to  sense  the  majesty 
and  mystery  of  those  mighty  old  piles  of  stone. 

Now  this  was  the  eastern  window  of  the  church,  and  the 
moon  was  at  that  moment  just  on  the  edge  of  the  horizon. 
The  next,  she  was  peeping  over  it.  And  lo,  with  the  moon, 
St.  John  and  St.  Paul  and  the  rest  of  them  began  to  dawn 
in  the  window  in  their  lovely  garments 

"And  how  comes  he  to  be  lying  there,  St.  Peter?"  said 
one. 

"I  think  I  saw  him  a  while  ago  up  in  the  gallery  under  the 
Nicodemus  window.  Perhaps  he  has  fallen  down.  What 
do  you  think,  St.  Matthew?" 

"I  don't  think  he  could  have  crept  here  after  falling  from 
such  a  height  —  What  do  you  say,  St.  Thomas  ?  " 

"Let's  go  down  and  look  at  him." 

There  came  a  rustling  and  a  chinking,  for  some  time,  and 
then  there  was  a  silence,  and  Diamond  felt  somehow  that 
all  the  apostles  were  standing  round  him  and  looking  down 
on  him. 

There  is  no  Italian  educator  who  will  ever  be 
born  able  to  convince  me  that  if  you  give  a  child 
enough  painted  blocks  he  can  learn  about  Gothic 
cathedrals  by  building  one  after  the  pattern  on 
the  inside  of  the  box  !  Of  course  he  will  learn  how 
the  cathedrals  look  that  he  builds;  I  grant  you 
that.  But  I  think  that  they  built  them  better  in 
the  Middle  Ages.  And  one  of  the  great  difficul 
ties  connected  with  the  new  cult  of  reverencing 


244  ON     OUR    HILL 

the  child  is  that  he  himself  ceases  to  reverence 
anything.  So  that  he  has  no  fear,  and  fear 
stretches  the  mind  and  increases  its  susceptibility 
to  sensations  of  every  sort. 

I  am  willing  to  go  much  further  than  this:  I  do 
not  believe  you  will  ever  make  young  inventors, 
even  by  giving  them  thousands  of  pieces  of  pierced 
steel  that  they  can  build  into  railroad  bridges 
and  revolving  wheels.  The  young  Watt  used  the 
kitchen  teakettle,  and  Newton,  like  his  Mother 
Eve  before  him,  learned  the  mysteries  of  heaven 
from  an  apple. 

Only  the  scientists  appreciate  scientific  toys;  the 
child,  like  the  red  man  of  the  plains,  asks  where 
the  horses  are  that  make  the  engine  run,  and  the 
only  scientific  thing  he  does  with  his  toy  engine 
is  to  break  it  to  bjts  in  order  to  see  what  makes  it 
go.  These  things  are  made  for  uncles  and  aunts, 
a  sort  of  Christmas  I.  O.  IT.  which  releases  them 
from  any  further  responsibility.  Only  when  the 
child  presents  them  at  the  big  bank  of  Middle 
Age,  the  tired  old  cashier  shakes  his  head  and 
coughs  dryly  and. says: 

"I  regret  to  have  to  inform  you,  sir,  or  madam, 
that  this  account  was  overdrawn  long  ago.  Have 
you  no  finances  of  your  own  ?  " 


MAGIC     CASEMENTS          245 

Then  the  poor,  empty,  grown-up  child  becomes 
very  sad  and  dull,  and  grumbles: 

"I  don't  see  what  is  the  matter  —  and  my  par 
ents  did  everything  for  me!" 

Now,  I  may  be  all  wrong,  but  I  cannot  seem  to 
see  the  elderly  people  of  1950,  let  us  say,  dragging 
out  from  forgotten  nursery  closets  the  bolts  and 
nuts  and  dynamos  of  their  childish  days  and  con 
structing  again,  with  shaking  fingers,  the  suspen 
sion  bridges  of  their  youth.  In  the  first  place,  un 
less  they  were  civil  engineers,  they  wouldn't  know 
how  to  do  it,  and  even  if  they  were,  the  whole 
process  will  undoubtedly  be  so  changed  by  that 
time  (suspension  bridges  may  be  built  of  alumi 
num  or  papier-mache  or  pontoons  of  aeroplanes) 
that  the  thing  will  mean  no  more  to  them  than 
an  arbalest  or  a  testudo  means  to  soldiers  to 
day. 

And  by  the  same  token,  I  refuse  to  believe  that 
half  a  century  from  now  we  shall  take  out  from  a 
desk-drawer  those  sage  accounts,  disguised  in  cap 
sule  story  form  like  castor-oil,  of  how  some  in 
structive  Uncle  Henry  or  Aunt  Matilda  led  their 
young  relatives  through  the  fields,  explaining  the 
difference  between  chipmunks  and  red  squirrels, 
and  why  finches  are  more  likely  to  lay  finches' 


246  ON     OUR    HILL 

eggs  than  orioles'  —  I  refuse  to  believe,  I  say,  that 
people  will  have  the  heart  to  hand  them  to  their 
children,  much  less  to  take  them  to  some  quiet 
corner  and  read  again  themselves.  No,  they  will 
give  their  nephews  and  nieces  the  corresponding 
volumes  of  the  new  generation,  recommended  by 
the  obliging  Christmas  clerk.  But  they  will  not 
have  to  read  them  themselves  —  heavens,  no ! 
They  can  take  "The  Water  Babies"  and  thrill 
again,  as  they  did  long  ago,  at  the  smell  of  the 
salt  sea  and  the  English  hedgerows,  and  the  chill 
of  the  great  bergs,  where  Mother  Carey's  chickens 
wheel  and  fly. 

Down  to  the  sea !  Down  to  the  sea !  With  the  otter  and 
the  eels  and  the  king  salmon  and  the  rest,  all  turning  and 
twisting  and  streaming  along  in  the  spate  and  swirl. 

Oh,  it  is  a  clean-washed  book,  and  the  big- 
hearted  Englishman  that  thundered  it  at  us  left 
no  one  to  fill  his  thick-soled  fishing-boots. 

Curiously  enough,  one  of  the  sweetest,  clearest 
pictures  that  it  brought  to  Our  Mother's  childish 
mind  was  a  little  bit  that  had  nothing  to  do  with 
fairies  or  water  or  adventure  of  any  sort.  When 
she  thinks  of  "The  Water  Babies,"  she  sees  what 
poor,  black  little  chimney-sweep  Tom  saw  through 


MAGIC    CASEMENTS          247 

a  cleft  in  the  cliff,  a  thousand  feet  down  Hartover 
Fell,  and  scrambled  into,  all  spent  and  bleeding. 

And  a  neat,  pretty  cottage  it  was,  with  clipped  yew  hedges 
all  round  the  garden,  and  yews  inside,  too,  cut  into  peacocks 
and  trumpets  and  teapots  and  all  kinds  of  queer  shapes. 
And  out  of  the  open  door  came  a  noise  like  that  of  the  frogs 
on  the  Great-A,  when  they  know  that  it  is  going  to  be  scorch 
ing  hot  to-morrow  —  and  how  they  know  that,  I  don't  know, 
and  you  don't  know,  and  nobody  knows. 

He  came  slowly  up  to  the  open  door,  which  was  all  hung 
round  with  clematis  and  roses;  and  then  peeped  in,  half 
afraid. 

And  there  sat  by  the  empty  fireplace,  which  was  filled 
with  a  pot  of  sweet  herbs,  the  nicest  old  woman  that  ever 
was  seen,  in  her  red  petticoat  and  short  dimity  bed-gown 
and  clean  white  cap,  with  a  black  silk  handkerchief  over  it, 
tied  under  her  chin.  At  her  feet  sat  the  grandfather  of  all 
the  cats,  and  opposite  her  sat,  on  two  benches,  twelve  or 
fourteen  neat,  rosy,  chubby  children,  learning  their  criss 
cross-row;  and  gabble  enough  they  made  about  it! 

Such  a  pleasant  cottage  it  was,  with  a  shiny  clean  stone 
floor,  and  curious  old  prints  on  the  walls,  and  an  old  black 
oak  sideboard  full  of  bright  pewter  and  brass  dishes,  and  a 
cuckoo  clock  in  the  corner,  which  began  shouting  as  soon  as 
Tom  appeared;  not  that  it  was  frightened  at  Tom,  but  that 
it  was  just  eleven  o'clock. 

Will  this  quiet  bit  of  old  England  hang  in  the 
galleries  of  Secunda's  merry  mind,  as  it  hangs, 
fresh  and  sweet,  in  Our  Mother's?  In  her  great 


ON    OUR    HILL 

haste  she  read  it  to  them --too  soon,  perhaps: 
they  do  not  seem  to  remember  it  so  warmly  as 
some  of  the  others. 

"Robinson  Crusoe"  we  read  first,  and  then 
"The  Swiss  Family  Robinson,"  first  love  of  Se- 
cunda's  book-shelf.  Seven  times  she  read  it 
through,  when  she  was  eight,  and  Tertius  started 
bravely  at  it  in  a  two-syllabled  edition  as  his  first 
private  literary  venture. 

Like  all  children,  they  greatly  preferred  it 
to  the  classic  Crusoe  model,  and  Fritz,  Ernest, 
and  Jack,  those  trusty  and  accomplished  youths, 
were  as  well  known  to  us  as  our  own  house 
hold. 

"It  was  a  very  useful  thing  for  them  that  Mrs. 
Swiss  Family  seemed  to  have  everything  they 
happened  to  need,  wasn't  it?"  Tertius  was  wont 
to  muse,  and  Secunda,  who  knew  the  capacity 
and  contents  of  the  wrecked  vessel,  that  store 
house  of  all  that  humanity  could  desire  for  com 
fortable  living,  would  chuckle  wisely. 

"If  she  hadn't  had  'em,  how  could  the  man  tell 
the  story?"  she  demanded. 

For  years  after  "Robinson  Crusoe,"  Prima 
would  inquire  on  the  mention  of  any  new  story: 
"Is  it  one  of  those  'I'  books?  I  mean,  does  the 


MAGIC     CASEMENTS          249 

one  that's  supposed  to  be  doing  it,  tell  it?     Be 
cause,  if  he  does,  I  don't  care  for  it." 

"How  ridiculous,  Prima!" 

"I  don't  see  why.  I  don't  happen  to  care  for 
them. 

"I  built  a  stockade--!  next  made  a  stout 
cask  —  falling  on  my  knees,  I  then  -  Disgust- 
ing!" 

"Goodness,  whose  knees  would  he  fall  on?"  Se- 
cunda  gurgles,  and  she  and  Tertius  convulse  Vith 
laughter. 

"Not  at  all.  You  could  say,  'the  man  then 
fell  on  his  knees,'  couldn't  you?  I  think  it's  poor 
taste.  But  you  don't  understand." 

"I  do,  then.  I  understand  as  well  as  you  do, 
Pri.  Oh,  Mother,  isn't  Prima  silly  ?  She  always 
thinks  if  you  don't  feel  the  same  way  she  does, 
you  don't  understand!" 

'You  don't  see  what  I  mean,  when  I  say  you 
don't  under  - 

Loud  shouts  from  every  one  drown  this,  and 
Prima  colors  angrily. 

:< You're  all  very  rude,"  she  storms  and  goes 
with  the  girls'  beloved,  the  "Katy"  books,  off  to 
another  room. 

They,  too,  stand  the  test  of  time,  these  whole- 


250  ON    OUR    HILL 

some,  merry,  clever  stories,  and  Our  Mother  never 
sees  one  of  the  volumes  without  picking  it  up  and 
dipping  into  it. 

Their  genial  author  once  told  Our  Mother  of  a 
disconsolate  little  girl  who  approached  her  cottage 
in  the  mountains,  on  a  hot  summer's  day,  drag 
ging  a  tired  puppy  behind  her. 

"Are    you    the    lady    that    wrote   the    'Katy' 
books?"  she  inquired,  with  an  injured  air. 
:  Yes,  my  dear  —  why  ?  " 
:Why  don't  you  write  some  more?" 
'Because,  my  child,  I  couldn't  think  of  any 
more.     Katy  grew  up,  you  know,  and  then  she 
married,  and   that  seemed   to  be  all  that  could 
happen  to  her,  you  see." 

"Humph!  You  might  have  made  her  have  a 
baby  --  that  would  be  better  than  nothing !" 

Did  you  ever  stop  to  think,  when  you  select 
books  for  children,  that  grown-ups  read  over  and 
over  again  the  only  good  ones  ?  And  do  you  re 
alize  that  they  are  nearly  all  fairy-tales  —  where 
the  dress  and  manners  and  vocabulary  can  never 
grow  old-fashioned,  and  that  they  concern  them 
selves  almost  exclusively  with  royalty  and  peas 
ants?  You  see,  the  middle  classes  change  and 
develop  all  sorts  of  ideas;  but  we  all  know  what 


MAGIC     CASEMENTS          251 

kings  and  queens  should  be,  and  the  peasant  is 
eternal.  In  our  country,  where  there  is  neither 
king  nor  peasant,  there  are  no  fairies. 

There  is  another  fact  you  must  remember  when 
you  confront  the  list  of  children's  books:  the 
good  books  for  children  were  written,  like  other 
good  books,  by  good  writers. 

"Mopsa  the  Fairy,"  perhaps  of  them  all  the 
most -completely  saturated  with  mystic,  untrans 
latable  atmosphere,  is  the  work  of  a  poet,  herself 
a  mystic.  It  is  like  old  ballads  and  chiming  bells 
and  those  purple  cities  that  suddenly  appear  in 
the  sunset.  For  Our  Mother  its  spell  never  fails, 
and  she  could  not  forgive  her  daughters,  who 
found  it  too  sad. 

"All  those  fairy  ones  are  sorrowful,"  said  Se- 
cunda.  "What's  the  good  of  it  there,  if  things 
are  sad,  like  here?" 

"But  who  is  to  tell  us  where  to  run?*'  asked  Jack. 

"Oh,"  said  Mopsa,  "some  of  these  people." 

"I  don't  see  anybody,"  said  Jack,  looking  about  him. 

Mopsa  pointed  to  a  group  of  stones,  and  then  to  another 
group,  and  as  Jack  looked  he  saw  that  in  shape  they  were 
something  like  people  —  stone  people.  One  stone  was  a  lit 
tle  like  an  old  man  with  a  mantle  over  him,  and  he  was  sit 
ting  on  the  ground  with  his  knees  up  nearly  to  his  chin. 
Another  was  like  a  woman  with  a  hood  on,  and  she  seemed 


252  ON    OUR    HILL 

to  be  leaning  her  chin  on  her  hand.  Close  to  these  stood 
something  ve^y  much  like  a  cradle  in  shape;  and  beyond 
were  stones  that  resembled  a  flock  of  sheep  lying  down  on 
the  bare  sand,  with  something  that  reminded  Jack  of  the 
figure  of  a  man  lying  asleep  near  them,  with  his  face  to  the 
ground. 

She  and  Jack  went  about  among  the  stones  all  day,  and 
as  the  sun  got  low  both  the  shadows  and  the  blocks  them 
selves  became  more  and  more  like  people,  and  if  you  went 
close  you  could  now  see  features,  very  sweet,  quiet  features, 
but  the  eyes  were  all  shut. 

Mopsa  went  to  the  figure  that  sat  by  the  cradle.  It  was 
a  stone  yet,  but  when  Mopsa  laid  her  little  warm  hand  on 
its  bosom  it  smiled. 

"Dear,"  said  Mopsa,  "I  wish  you  would  wake." 

A  curious  little  sound  was  now  heard,  but  the  figure  did 
not  move,  and  the  apple-woman  lifted  Mopsa  onto  the  lap 
of  the  statue;  then  she  put  her  arms  round  its  neck,  and 
spoke  to  it  again  very  distinctly:  "Dear,  why  don't  you 
wake?" 

"I  am  not  warm,"  said  the  figure;  and  that  was  quite 
true,  and  yet  she  was  not  a  stone  now  which  reminded  one 
of  a  woman,  but  a  woman  that  reminded  one  of  a  stone. 

All  the  west  was  very  red  with  the  sunset,  and  the  river 
was  red  too,  and  Jack  distinctly  saw  some  of  the  coils  of 
rope  glide  down  from  the  trees  and  slip  into  the  water;  next 
he  saw  the  stones  that  had  looked  like  sheep  raise  their 
heads  in  the  twilight  and  then  lift  themselves  and  shake 
their  woolly  sides.  At  that  instant  the  large  white  moon 
heaved  up  her  pale  face  between  two  dark  blue  hills,  and 
upon  this  the  statue  put  out  its  feet  and  gently  rocked  the 
cradle. 


MAGIC     C  A  S  E  M  E  N  T  S          253 

Those  patient  stone  ones,  faintly  red  in  the 
faint  sunset,  as  Our  Mother  saw  them  then  and 
sees  them  now !  They  touched  her  imagination, 
as  the  thought  of  the  Great  Pyramids  and  the 
Sphinx  touched  her  later. 

We  loved  "The  Little  Lame  Prince"  —one  of 
the  saddest  of  all !  —  and  only  blinked  a  little  at 
the  last  when  the  Prince,  old  now  and  tired,  told 
the  people  that  he  must  go. 

"  Remember  me  sometimes,  my  people,  for  I  have  love'B 
you  well.  And  I  am  going  a  long  way,  and  I  do  not  think 
I  shall  come  back  any  more." 

And  then  he  drew  out  the  little  shabby  bundle,  and  un 
rolled  it,  and  set  it  on  the  ground,  and  it  was  the  Wonderful 
Cloak,  and  he  sailed  away  on  it  to  the  Beautiful  Mountains. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  points  about  our 
reading  came  out  when  we  had  the  Greek  trage 
dies.  Our  Mother  tried  them,  very  tentatively, 
just  to  see  what  the  three  would  say.  They  were 
translated  in  prose,  and  they  were  severe  and 
brief. 

After  the  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia,  Our  Mother 
paused. 

"Do  you  care  for  that?"  she  asked.  "Because 
if  you  find  it  dull  —  or  gloomy  —  we  needn't  go 
on,  you  know." 


254  ON    OUR    HILL 

"Are  there  more  of  them?"  said  Secunda,  in 
awestruck  tones.  "Could  you  go  on?  Would 
you?" 

And  through  those  stark  and  massive  sorrows 
we  strode  together,  never  weeping,  never  even 
depressed.  The  terrible  tonic  quality,  the  vast 
justice,  the  inscrutable  fate,  flushed  their  cheeks. 

"More!  More!"  they  cried,  and  for  a  week 
Our  Mother  poured  Euripides  and  ^Eschylus  into 
their  baby  ears.  And  when  Medea  the  terrible, 
the  desperate,  slaughtered  and  burned  her  way 
through  the  royal  household  and  fled  defiant, 
drawn  in  her  dragon  car  above  the  heads  of  the 
horrified  populace,  Secunda  raised  her  finger  sol 
emnly  for  silence. 

"Do  you  know  what  was  the  matter  with  that 
woman?"  she  demanded,  like  a  sybil. 

"No  —  what?"  we  asked  breathlessly. 

"That  woman  thought  only  of  herself!" 

You  see,  we  weep  for  Undine,  but  we  brace  our 
selves  to  meet  the  gods ! 

One  pleasure  was  theirs  that  Our  Mother  never 
had  at  their  age.  A  friend  sent  us  that  darling  of 
all  childhood,  "Heidi."  We  did  not  know  it  was 
a  nursery  classic,  beloved  in  many  lands. 

The  very  breath  of  the  Alps  blows  through  the 


MAGIC    CASEMENTS          255 

pages;  Schwaenli  and  Baerli,  the  two  friendly  goats, 
gave  such  spicy  flower-filled  milk  that  we  longed 
for  wooden  bowls  and  spoons,  at  least,  such  as  the 
Aim-Uncle  carved  for  little  Heidi,  to  make  more 
palatable  our  own  domestic  product.  Her  fra 
grant  bed  of  hay,  her  neat  little  wooden  stool,  the 
yellow  pats  of  butter  and  the  russet-toasted  cheese 
that  she  ate,  barefooted,  on  the  high,  windy  hills, 
all  fascinated  us  so  that  our  own  wide-sweeping 
outlook  grew  tame  and  empty.  Why  had  we  no 
goats?  No  carpenter  like  the  Uncle? 

"Nothing  seems  to  be  interesting  here,"  Prima 
announced  that  summer.  "I  wish  I  lived  in  the 
Alps  somewhere  —  or  on  a  plantation." 

'Then,"  said  Secunda  thoughtfully,  "you  might 
find  yourself  reading  a  book  about  Our  Hill, 
and  you'd  wish  you  lived  here  —  we  all  know 
you!" 

Secunda  was  not  quite  seven  when  Our  Mother 
read  "Pilgrim's  Progress"  to  them.  With  the 
exception  of  "Greek  Tragedies"  they  have  loved 
no  book  better.  So  afraid  were  they  that  some 
thing  might  escape  them,  that  once  when  Our 
Mother  began  to  murmur  rapidly  and  glance  down 
the  page,  with  a  view  to  easing  the  situation,  they 
sternly  requested  her  to  read  more  plainly. 


256  ON    OUR    HILL 

"But  this  part  is  rather  dull,'  she  excused  her 
self. 

"We'd  rather  hear  it  all,"  Prima  assured  her. 
'You  might  miss  out  some  good  bits,  you  know." 

"As  you  wish,"  said  Our  Mother,  and  she  read 
out  loud  and  clear  the  following  sentence: 

For  true  justifying  faith  puts  the  soul  (as  sensible  of  its 
lost  condition  by  the  law)  upon  flying  for  refuge  unto  Christ's 
righteousness  (which  righteousness  of  his  is  not  an  act  of 
grace,  by  which  he  maketh  for  justification  thy  obedience 
accepted  with  God,  but  his  personal  obedience  to  the  law 
in  doing  and  suffering  for  us,  what  that  required  at  our 
hands).  This  righteousness,  I  say,  true  faith  accepteth. 

Bunyan,  writing  in  his  prison,  could  not  have 
been  more  intent  than  they,  watching,  from  their 
little  chairs,  their  Mother's  moving  lips. 

And  when  Valiant  was  summoned !  Then  in 
deed  Our  Mother  wished  for  a  voice  of  gold  and 
only  feared  that  she  could  not  make  them  see  all 
that  glory.  .  .  . 

"Then,"  said  he,  "I  am  going  to  my  fathers,  and  though 
with  great  difficulty  I  am  got  hither,  yet  now  I  do  not  repent 
me  of  all  the  trouble  I  have  been  at  to  arrive  where  I  am. 
My  sword  I  give  to  him  that  shall  succeed  me  in  my  pilgrim 
age,  and  my  courage  and  skill  to  him  that  can  get  it."  — 
When  the  day  that  he  must  go  hence  was  come,  many  ac 
companied  him  to  the  riverside,  into  which  as  he  went  he 


MAGIC    CASEMENTS          257 

said,  "Death,  where  is  thy  sting?"  And  as  he  went  down 
deeper,  he  said,  "Grave,  where  is  thy  victory?"  So  he 
passed  over,  and  all  the  trumpets  sounded  for  him  on  the 
other  side. 

We  were  a  year  in  reading  through  the  Bible. 
We  alternated  it  with  "Don  Quixote,"  which  we 
liked  least  of  all.  I  doubt  if  they  ever  read  it  over 
again  by  themselves.  Prima  thought  most  of  the 
events  unlikely  and  all  of  the  people  rather  foolish. 

The  New  Testament  they  preferred  to  the  Old, 
to  Our  Mother's  astonishment;  Joseph  and  Daniel 
they  liked  best  of  the  Israelitish  heroes.  For 
Moses  they  conceived  a  cold  dislike  —  shared, 
undoubtedly,  by  many  of  his  contemporaries. 

"Where  did  he  really  get  those  ten  command 
ments?"  Prima  inquired  confidentially.  "Of 
course  no  stone  could  stay  up  in  the  air,  like  that, 
till  he  came  along." 

"He  prob'bly  wrote  them  himself,"  Secunda 
vouchsafed.  "People  were  always  making  things 
in  those  times,  and  saying  the  gods  did  it." 

When  we  came  to  the  Book  of  Revelation  we  had 
been  for  some  time  sharing  the  reading,  and  it  fell 
to  Prima  to  describe  to  us  that  New  Jerusalem : 

For  the  first  heaven  and  the  first  earth  were  passed  away; 
and  there  was  no  more  sea. 


258  ON     OUR    HILL 

Her  voice  is  soft  and  deep. 

They  shall  hunger  no  more,  neither  thirst  any  more; 
neither  shall  the  sun  light  on  them,  nor  any  heat. 

She  sees  how  beautiful  it  is,  and  tries  to  make 
her  vowels  as  round  and  pure  as  the  words  she 
reads. 

And  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes;  and 
there  shall  be  no  more  death,  neither  sorrow,  nor  crying, 
neither  shall  tnere  be  any  more  pain:  for  the  former  things 
are  passed  away. 

You  must  hear  these  things  read  by  a  child  to 
see  how  mystical,  how  touching  they  can  be. 

And  there  shall  be  no  night  there;  and  they  need  no  can 
dle,  neither  light  of  the  sun,  for  the  Lord  God  giveth  them 
light:  and  they  shall  reign  for  ever  and  ever. 

One  sees  how  hundreds  of  thousands  of  us  mor 
tals  have  died  happily,  with  these  words  in  our 
mouths. 

Afterward,  when  Our  Mother  has  patted  her 
eyes,  she  gets  a  hymn-book  and  Secunda  reads 
for  us  "O  Mother  dear,  Jerusalem." 

"Now,"  says  Our  Mother,  "there  is  the  same 
thing,  only  in  poetry.  Which  do  you  like  bet 
ter?" 


'Is  this  going  to  be  true,"  he  inquired  gravely,  "or  only  just  interesting?' 


MAGIC    CASEMENTS          261 

"The  Bible!"  Secunda  shouts,  and  Prima  adds 
soberly,  "Yes,  the  Bible." 
"But  why?     Listen  to  this: 

"No  earthly  cloud  enshadows  thee, 
Nor  gloom  nor  darksome  night; 
But  every  soul  shines  as  the  sun, 
For  God  Himself  gives  light." 

"Isn't  that  the  same  thing?" 

"Well,"  says  Prima,  "it's  the  same,  but  it's 
made  more  tinkly  and  rhyming,  so  you  can  sing  it, 
you  see.  When  you  say  it  more  uneven,  like  the 
real  Bible,  it's  more  beautifuller,  I  think." 

"It's  more  grander,  too,"  Secunda  adds. 
"There's  more  solemnness.  There  are  some  things 
it's  no  good  to  rhyme  —  don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

Our  Mother,  who  has  been  trembling  for  their 
answer,  kisses  them  ceremonially  and  gives  them 
each  a  large  lemon-drop 

"What  are  you  going  to  read  them  next?"  asks 
an  interested  Godmother. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  says  Our  Mother.  "They 
can  read  what  they  like  now  —  their  English 
style  is  formed." 

"But  they  may  forget  it " 

"They  won't  get  a  chance,"  Our  Mother  assures 


ONOURHILL 

her.     "We    shall    read    it    through    every    three 
years." 

And  only  last  night  Tertius  held  the  big  book 
on  his  new  blue  trousers  and  began,  in  his  won 
derful,  cooing  contralto: 

"  In  the  beginning  God  created  the  heaven  and  the  earth " 

Here  he  paused  a  moment. 

"Is  this  going  to  be  true,"  he  inquired  gravely, 
"or  only  just  interesting?" 

"My  dearest,"  replied  Our  Mother,  "it  must 
be  true,  or  you  wouldn't  be  reading  it,  I'm  sure. 
And  if  you  read  it,  it  is  bound  to  be  interesting !" 

And  from  that  opinion  no  amount  of  Higher 
Criticism  shall  ever  move  her  1 


OUR    FIRST    FRIENDS 


THE  DESCENT  OF  MAN 

ENG  ago  in  Jungle-land,  I  found  my  cave  and  homed 
there, 

Long  ago  I  planted  fire  and  reaped  its  scarlet  bloom. 
While  I  cooked  in  reindeer-skins,  the  savage  beasties  roamed 

there, 
Howled  behind  my  door  of  thorns  and  tried  to  force  my 

room. 

But  there  was  a  friendly  Dog,  who'd  never,  never  leave  me, 
He'd  hunt  for  me,  he'd  fish  for  me,  he'd  drive  the  beasts 

away, 

Although  I  often  scolded  him,  he'd  rather  die  than  grieve  me — 
His  honest  eyes  were  Prima's  eyes.     So  she  loves  dogs  to-day  ! 

Long  ago  in  Jungle-land,  I  had  a  bird  to  cheer  me, 
She'd  sing  to  me,  she'd  swoop  to  me,  she'd  drift  from  bough 

to  bough. 
But  when  I  would  have  stroked  her  close,  she  never  would 

fly  near  me, 
And  when  I  longed  to  dance  with  her,  she'd  never  teach  me 

how. 

Often  would  she  roam  afar,  where  I  could  never  follow, 
I  would  hear  her  laugh  at  night,  when  all  the  woods  were 

still. 

Even  so  Secunda  dances,  airy,  like  a  swallow. 
So  she  sings  at  early  dawn,  a  bird  upon  Our 


Long  ago  in  Jungle-land,  'twas  I  that  grew  so  lonely ! 
Weeping  through  the  wood  I  went,  stretching  empty  arms. 
"  If  I  had  a  tiny  thing,  soft,  a  plaything  only  ! 
A  frightened  thing,  a  furry  thing,  a  thing  to  shield  from 

harms !" 
Then  in  the  leaves  among  the  roots,  I  found  the  bunny 

lying, 

Its  quiet  eyes,  its  velvet  fur,  its  fluffy  tail  were  mine. 
It  burrowed  deep  into  my  arms  and  all  my  heart  ceased 

crying — 
So  Tertius  laughs  when  rabbits  leap — link  in  the  chain  divine. 


OUR    FIRST    FRIENDS 


Mother   does   not,  cannot,    know   with 
what  pets  The  Three  were  wont   to  play 
when  Barry,  who  was  to  be  their  first  companion 
-Queen's   Barry,    to   give   him   his   full   kennel 
title  —  came  to  live  with  her. 

It  seems  odd  not  to  know  this,  but  to  be  per 
fectly  truthful,  Our  Mother  did  not  know  The 
Three  then,  for  they  had  not  come  to  live  with 
her,  themselves  ! 

Did  they  coast  on  moonbeam  sleds  down  the 
cloud-hills  ?  Did  they  swim  in  those  rosy,  golden 
lakes  of  sunset,  where  the  purple  bays  and  jagged 
indigo  promontories  make  such  fairy  islands  in  the 
evening  west?  Secunda  must  have  shot  pale 
arrows  at  the  clustered  stars,  be  sure,  for  she  was 
vowed  to  Robin  Hood  from  the  first;  and  Prima 
must  have  swam  lazily  along  the  Milky  Way, 
teasing  the  smaller  cherubs  who  would  not  dare 
to  venture  too  far  from  the  large  planets.  Ter- 
tius,  I  am  afraid,  did  nothing  at  all.  How  should 
he,  when  all  the  saints  were  kissing  him? 

One  is  quite  certain  that  St.  Peter's  keys  and 

267 


268  ON     OUR    HILL 

St.  Catherine's  wheel,  and  St.  Sebastian's  arrows 
(probably  the  first  time  he  was  glad  of  them, 
poor  creature  !)  would  have  furnished  the  heavenly 
nursery  of  Tertius  from  the  beginning-  of  begin 
nings.  And  Michael  would  have  told  him  of  all 
those  furious  heavenly  conflicts,  and  proudly  re 
called  his  bad  quarter  hour  with  the  Dragon,  re 
paid  for  it  at  last,  one  hopes,  by  that  wonderful, 
wide-eyed  interest  with  which  Tertius  must  al 
ways  have  rewarded  such  efforts  to  please  him. 
And  the  good  St.  Joseph,  beyond  any  doubt, 
took  him  rides  upon  his  donkey  .  .  .  the  wonder 
is  that  Tertius  was  ever  willing  to  come  down  to 
Our  Hill ! 

Secunda,  one  supposes,  sent  him  word  as  to 
the  adequate  amusements  of  the  place,  just  as 
Prima  advised  her,  in  her  turn,  of  its  possibilities, 
so  that  she  handed  them  back  their  haloes  and 
cloaks  with  stars,  and  thanked  them  for  the 
harps  and  palms  (what  a  celestial  Greenroom  that 
must  have  been  for  Secunda!),  and  pirouetted 
thrice  before  the  Elders  on  their  Thrones,  and 
flew  down. 

Before  Prima  came  (one  pictures  her  gravely 
directing  the  Stork  as  to  approved  scientific 
methods  of  volplaning,  and  reasoning  with  his 


OUR    FIRST    FRIENDS        269 

hoary  prejudices  as  to  the  best  way  of  carrying 
her),  before,  I  say,  Prima  left  the  well-schooled 
seraphim  and  descended  to  a  wider  field  for  her 
didactic  capacities,  Our  Mother  was  wont  to  take 
long,  musing  walks  over  the  mountain  trails  with 
Barry,  the  great  tawny  Dane,  at  heel.  His 
mournful  eyes,  his  tiger-striped  flanks,  his  soft, 
padding  steps  were  early  known  to  Prima,  and  the 
first  summer  of  her  life  he  marched  beside  her 
perambulator,  or  lay  on  the  blanket  spread  on 
the  ground,  where  she  sprawled  in  the  sun. 

She  was  always  quite  fearless  with  animals,  and 
insisted  upon  patting  everything  pattable,  and 
riding  everything  ridable,  while  Secunda  and 
Tertius,  curiously  enough,  though  perfectly  cer 
tain  of  their  ability  to  enchain  anything  human, 
always  shrank  a  little  from  dogs  and  horses, 
and  even  mistrusted  elephants.  (Our  Mother 
never  met  but  one  elephant  with  whom  she  felt 
herself  unwilling  to  escape  into  the  desert,  and 
he  was  chained  fore  and  aft,  and  lived  only  in 
the  hope  of  one  day  killing  his  keeper !) 

By  the  time  Secunda  had  joined  us,  Barry  had 
become  an  excellent  nurse-maid.  From  the  first 
she  displayed  her  passion  for  costume,  and  her 
frilled  sunbonnet  was  oftener  over  his  head  than 


270  ON    OUR    HILL 

hers.  For  hours  and  hours,  with  the  persistent 
patience  of  infancy,  Secunda  would  endeavor  to 
force  his  long,  supple  paws  through  the  tiny  em 
broidered  sleeves  of  her  little  blue-denim  jacket. 
He  weighed  one  hundred  and  thirty-seven  pounds 
and  she  but  fifty  odd;  and,  unfortunately,  there 
was  no  language  common  to  Our  Mother,  Secunda, 
and  Barry  through  whose  medium  any  sufficient 
communication  could  be  established. 

"Why  do  you  let  her  annoy  you  so,  my  dear?" 
Our  Mother  would  ask  him,  and: 

"Darling,  don't  you  see  that  his  back  is  too 
broad  for  both  his  arms  to  go  through  the  sleeves 
at  the  same  time?"  she  would  beg  Secunda. 

Then  Barry  would  smile  seriously,  and  Secunda 
would  laugh  obstinately,  and  they  would  try  to 
talk  —  but  neither  of  them  knew  how  ! 

Since  then,  Our  Mother  has  observed  so  many 
human  triangles,  baffling  any  earthly  geometry, 
that  have  reminded  her  so  irresistibly  of  those 
conversational  blockades  for  which  there  was  no 
interpreter ! 

When  Prima  was  two  and  a  half,  a  bold,  ex 
ploring  soul  —  her  mind  was  incalculably  stronger 
than  her  legs  —  Our  Mother  ordered  a  roll  of 
chicken-wire,  a  yard  in  height,  and  had  it  stretched 


OUR    FIRST    FRIENDS 


271 


around  a  circular  space  on  the  lawn,  free  from 
stones  and  shrubs  and  flower-beds.  Stout  stakes 
supported  it  at  proper  intervals,  a  great  elm 


Her  frilled  sunbonnet  was  oftener  over  his  head  than  hers 

shaded  half  of  it,  rugs  dotted  it  at  inviting  points: 
an  outdoor  salon,  ceiled  with  blue  and  white, 
carpeted  with  emerald.  Prima  was  lifted  over 
the  edge,  early  in  the  morning;  Barry  leaped 


272  ONOURHILL 

easily  after,  a  silver  mug  of  milk  from  Cornelia 
the  cow,  who  grazed  within  easy  eye-range,  was 
administered,  and  a  crust  of  bread  was  inserted 
in  one  of  the  openings  of  the  wire,  very  much 
as  his  bit  of  snowy  cuttlefish  projects  into  the 
canary's  cage. 

Then  a  few  toys  were  tossed  over  the  edge  — • 
children  who  play  out-of-doors  care  very  little  for 
toys  —  and  everybody  went  away. 

Sometimes  she  tottered  back  and  forth  over 
the  clipped  turf,  gesticulating,  babbling  quaintly 
to  the  birds  that  often  perched  on  her  railing. 
Sometimes  she  lay  on  her  back  and  kicked  rhythmi 
cally  into  space,  sucking  her  thumb.  Sometimes 
she  tore  up  handfuls  of  the  grass  and  cast  them, 
with  large,  sweeping  gestures,  to  the  four  corners 
of  the  world.  But  always  and  always  she  was 
alone.  This  seemed  to  many  people  astoundingly 
cruel. 

It  was  before  the  days  of  Our  Hill,  which  was 
populated  at  that  time  by  forty  Sicilian  peasants, 
busy  at  the  walls  of  Our  House,  and  the  big  lawn 
where  Prima  played  stretched  down  to  a  quiet 
country  road.  Often  and  often  kindly  passers-by, 
catching  the  spot  of  white  that  was  her  dress, 
so  small  between  the  blue  of  her  ceiling  and  the 


OUR    FIRST    FRIENDS        273 

green  of  her  floor,  would  toil  up  the  driveway  and 
ring  the  bell. 

"Did  you  know  that  there  was  a  child  out  there 
-all  alone?"  they  would  ask,  "a  mere  baby?" 

"Oh,  that's  all  right  —  she's  in  her  pen;  didn't 
you  see  the  wire?  But  thank  you,  all  the  same." 

"A  pen  ?  A  pen?  But  it's  all  alone  —  alone!" 
they  would  gasp  reproachfully,  and  go  away, 
very  doubtful. 

"It  does  seem  as  if  somebody  might  be  got  to 
play  with  that  child!"  they  would  say  sometimes 
in  the  little  village. 

All  around  her,  children  screamed  and  scolded 
and  cried,  and  tired  people  picked  up  the  toys 
they  threw  down,  and  gave  them  bits  of  candy, 
and  brown  medicine  out  of  bottles,  and  spanked 
them,  and  rocked  them,  and  talked  and  talked 
and  talked  to  them.  These  children  slept  when 
others  woke,  and  woke  when  others  slept;  which 
means,  of  course,  that  everybody  had  to  be  quiet, 
in  the  first  case,  and  couldn't  be,  in  the  second. 
Somebody  was  saying,  "No,  no!"  to  them  con 
stantly  —  or  if  not,  acting  in  such  a  way  that 
somebody  else  must  devote  a  great  deal  of  time 
to  saying  it,  later ! 

And  yet,  although  they  could  all  observe  that 


274  ON     OUR     HILL 

Prima  never  was  ill,  never  was  cross,  never  was 
bored,  never  was  spanked,  never  did  anything 
but  eat  and  sleep  and  laugh  —  in  short,  they  per 
sisted  in  pitying  her ! 

And  in  course  of  time  they  pitied  Secunda, 
who  lay  in  her  perambulator  on  the  roof  of  the 
big  veranda,  equally  placid,  equally  alone,  star 
ing  fascinated  at  the  ceaselessly  moving  leaves 
above  her.  She  wove  patterns  with  her  tiny 
fingers  in  the  air,  following,  Our  Mother  always 
thought,  the  movements  of  the  billowy  boughs; 
she  gurgled  a  sort  of  Hawaiian  recitative  while 
she  made  these  motions,  and  when  she  flung  her 
rubber  cow  over  the  edge  —  as  everybody  does, 
of  course,  because  it  is  fun  to  see  them  bend  and 
grunt  and  pick  it  up  and  shake  their  fingers 
at  you  —  Our  Nurse  simply  tied  the  cow  with 
a  string  to  the  perambulator,  and  went  away 
again. 

Wonderful  idea  —  it  would  never  have  oc 
curred  to  Our  Mother !  It  seems  to  her  like  the 
egg  of  Columbus  or  Newton's  apple.  But  to 
Helen  it  was  very  simple  —  one  instance,  merely, 
of  an  amazing  technique,  a  virtuosity  so  great  that 
art  concealed  art,  as  the  classic  gentleman  so 
deathlessly  phrased  it. 


OUR    FIRST    FRIENDS        275 

Dear  Helen --what  monument,  what  testi 
monial  can  mothers  raise  that  shall  be  in  any  way 
worthy  of  such  as  you?  Such  loving  care,  such 
simple  wisdom,  such  dauntless  sacrifice !  All  over 
the  world,  remember,  from  the  beginning  of  civili 
zation,  innumerable  devoted  women  have  lifted 
up  their  hearts,  in  an  Act  of  Oblation  unmatched, 
in  purity,  in  purpose,  in  tireless  patience,  before 
altars  not  builded  for  them,  in  homes  that  never 
can  be  theirs.  Their  hearts,  oh,  happy  brides, 
who  forget  that  they  are  waiting  for  you  some 
where,  when  you  shall  summon  them,  their  hearts 
may  never  thrill,  as  yours  thrill  to-night  —  and 
yet,  have  they  no  hearts  ?  You  know  it,  for  you 
will  trust  your  dearest  to  them,  later.  Their 
hands,  their  laps,  their  breasts,  must  shelter  the 
little  twining  creatures  that  will  burrow  into  their 
very  souls  —  have  they  no  souls?  You  know  it, 
for  you  and  yours  lean  heavily  on  them.  And  yet 
they  know  that  so  surely  as  they  give  themselves, 
hands  and  feet  and  heart  and  brain,  to  those 
helpless  little  conquerors,  your  children,  they 
know  that  they  are  doomed  by  the  very  nature 
of  things  to  be  outgrown,  outworn.  They  have 
but  one  claim  —  to  be  remembered  in  love. 

"Oughtn't  you  to  put  another  blanket  on  the 


276  ON     OUR     HILL 

baby,  Helen?"  Our  Mother  asks;  "it's  bound  to 
get  awfully  cold,  you  know,  when  the  furnace 
goes  down." 

"Oh,  she  wouldn't  like  it  now,  Mother,"  says 
Our  Nurse  quickly;  "it's  not  good  for  her  to  be 
too  warm,  now.  Later  on,  I'll  change  it." 

"But,  Helen,  you'll  be  asleep  —  how  will  you 
know?" 

"Oh,  no,"  Our  Nurse  answers  simply,  "these 
cold  nights  I  always  take  off  one  of  my  own 
blankets,  and  then  I  get  so  chilled  that  I  wake  up 
and  put  one  on  Baby." 

And  Our  Mother  turned  and  went  away  in 
silence,  thinking  how  justly  humanity  had  left 
the  old  religions  for  a  new  one  founded  upon  a 
Woman  and  a  Child. 

When  we  came  at  last  to  Our  Hill  we  found  a 
wife  for  Barry,  and  by  the  time  Tertius  had  been 
persuaded  to  join  us,  four  and  five  and  six  massive 
puppies,  in  every  stage  of  Great  Danehood, 
jumped  on  us  and  knocked  us  down,  unless  we 
took  great  care.  One  idle  swish  of  a  smooth  dark 
tail  can  seat  an  inquiring  infant  in  helpless  sur 
prise  upon  the  ground;  and  the  affectionate  on 
slaughts  of  a  loving  brute,  impetuously  hurling 
itself  on  the  breast  of  six  feet  of  unsuspecting 


OUR    FIRST    FRIENDS        277 

humanity,  may  well  cause  even  the  lords  of  the 
earth  to  totter. 

Alexandra,  when  about  to  present  us  with  her 
delightful  progeny,  reverted  curiously  to  type, 
and  escaped  from  the  nursery  prepared  for  her 
into  deep  caves  in  the  rocks,  where  only  Our 
Mother  dared  follow  her.  Stalking  like  a  deer- 
hunter  the  faint  yelps  and  whines  of  hungry  baby 
Danes,  Our  Mother  would  stagger  down  the 
steep  hillsides,  a  swaying  basin  of  bread  and 
milk  in  one  hand,  clutching  with  the  other  at  the 
roots  and  stones  that  steadied  her  descent. 

At  last  before  her  eyes  the  long,  quivering  nose 
reached  out,  snuffing;  a  low  growl  sent  the  at 
tendant  coachman  back  in  haste. 

"No,  no,  it's  all  right,  dear  —  it's  only  me. 
I've  brought  you  some  bread  and  milk.  How 
many  are  there?" 

Alexandra  licks  Our  Mother's  fingers,  but  does 
not  move  from  the  mouth  of  her  cave. 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  won't  move,  I  suppose  I'll 
have  to  feed  you  here,"  and  Our  Mother,  squat 
ting  before  the  cave,  dips  up  handfuls  of  the 
warm  mess  into  Sandra's  mouth,  till  it  is  all  gone. 

Later  we  can  pack  the  puppies  into  a  box  and 
drag  them  in  the  express-cart  up  to  the  stable, 


278  ON     OUR     HILL 

at  what  pace  their  anxious  mother  shall  set,  and 
then  we  can  name  them.  Dagmar  and  Wotan  and 
Cnut.  .  .  .  We  could  never  understand  why 
people  jumped  and  said  "O-o-o-h!"  when  they 
dashed  around  the  house  in  a  streaming  line. 
They  were  all  so  gentle,  really. 

None  of  us  can  remember  when  we  hadn't  a 
donkey.  Our  first  one  travelled  miles  across 
country  to  us,  romantically  led  or  ridden  by  Our 
Uncle,  whom  every  one  mistook  for  a  gypsy,  so 
that  they  offered  him  food  and  wanted  their  for 
tunes  told,  and  he  liked  it  so  much  that  he  very 
nearly  betrayed  us,  and  went  away  to  be  one,  really  ! 

We  could  not  name  him  because  his  christening 
was  a  matter  of  history.  His  first  owner,  receiv 
ing  him  on  a  rapturous  Fourth  of  July,  paused 
with  a  stick  of  that  brown,  fungous  material  con 
secrated  to  the  lighting  of  firecrackers,  held  high 
in  his  hand,  and  looking  up  to  heaven,  cried  out 
of  a  full  heart: 

"Oh,  God,  I  baptize  this  donkey  Punk!" 

So  Donkey  Punk,  when  Prima  was  three,  per 
haps,  founded  his  dynasty,  which  photography 
has  preserved  forever;  and  for  many  years  (his 
own  age  was  lost  in  antiquity)  carried  Helen  and 
her  babies  along  the  country  roads. 


OUR    FIRST    FRIENDS        279 

Indeed  it  was  he  who  brought  them  finally  to 
Our  Hill,  preceded  by  Our  Mother,  driving  a 
skittish  horse  to  a  high  English  cart,  perilously 
poised,  herself,  on  a  load  of  family  portraits, 
goldfish,  hat-boxes,  currant  jelly,  and  student- 
lamps. 

When  Punk  was  tired,  he  stopped  in  his  tracks 
until  he  was  rested,  and  when  he  thought  he  had 
gone  far  enough,  he  stopped  entirely.  Since  no 
one  ever  knew  his  thoughts,  this  made  driving 
him  more  of  an  adventure  than  the  uninitiated 
might  suppose.  As  no  one  could  deal  him  a  blow 
capable  of  penetrating  his  thick  hide,  he  went  at 
his  own  pace,  ohne  Hast,  ohne  Rast,  as  the  poet  says, 
and  scornful  walking-parties  who  jeered  at  him 
going  up-hill,  were  forced  to  watch  him  from  be 
hind,  the  summit  once  reached.  Sometimes,  in 
deed,  an  inexplicable  speed  mania  possessed  him, 
and  at  such  times  Helen  whizzed  past  like  a 
meteor,  clutching  the  reins  with  set  teeth,  while 
persons  of  sporting  proclivities  placed  their  bets 
freely.  In  a  word,  an  animal  of  temperament. 

No  one  had  ever  dreamed  of  life  without  him; 
he  was  as  much  a  part  of  our  landscape  as  the 
hills  or  the  stone  water-tower. 

So  when  Clark  came  in  one  Easter  morning  and 


£80  ON    OUR    HILL 

said  abruptly  to  Our  Mother,  summoned  to  the 
pantry: 

"Punk's  gone!"  it  was  a  real  shock. 

"Standin'  up  on  his  feet,  too,"  he  went  on. 
"I  give  him  some  carrots  and  his  bit  o'  grain 
larst  night,  as  ever  was  —  an'  now  'e's  gone. 
Standin'  on  his  feet.  I  don't  mind  sayin'  I  wiped 
me  eyes!" 

Our  Mother  had  the  breaking  of  this  news,  and 
looked  for  a  sad  Easter.  But  then  she  said,  with 
a  determined  cheerfulness: 

"You  know,  children,  how  old  Donkey  Punk 
must  have  been?  After  a  certain  number  of 
years  even  a  donkey  must  die.  So  he  simply 
went  to  sleep  last  night,  after  a  good  supper,  and 
this  morning  he  didn't  wake.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,"  said  Secunda  thoughtfully,  "dead.  And 
on  Easter  morning  —  well,  he  would  have!" 

The  others  nodded  their  heads  thoughtfully, 
too.  Evidently  they,  too,  felt  that  "he  would 
have."  Our  Mother  stared,  began  to  speak,  de 
cided  not  to,  and  left  them. 

What  mysterious  fitness  was  it  that  was  so 
clear  to  them?  Do  you  know?  Because  Our 
Mother  does  not. 

He  is  buried  behind  the  tennis-court,  walled  in 


OUR    FIRST     FRIENDS        281 

by  four  beautiful  rectangles  of  stone  that  were  des 
tined  for  door-arches,  but  turned  out  to  have  been 
imperfectly  fitted.  Myrtle  grows  in  the  corners 
and  English  ivy  climbs  up  the  warm  walls  of  the 
buttress  behind  that  supports  the  court.  There 
was  a  funeral  planned,  with  "Onward,  Christian 
Soldiers"  and  a  poem,  but  somehow  it  drifted  in 
to  a  picnic,  on  account  of  some  guests  that  turned 
up,  and  delicious  weather  —  and  unless  you  attend 
to  funerals  immediately,  you  must'  have  noticed 
that  they  slip  out  of  your  life  inevitably,  and  fail 
of  celebration ! 

Take  the  green  paroquets,  for  instance.  One 
died,  in  circumstances  of  deepest  mystery.  Stark 
and  stiff  he  lay,  on  the  white  sand  of  the  big  brass 
cage  in  the  dining-room  window,  and  Our  Mother, 
who  had  noticed  him  to  be  particularly  argumen 
tative  and  aggressive  the  day  before,  inclined  to 
believe  that  the  two  white  Java  sparrows  and  the 
three  gray  finches  and  his  little  green  wife  had 
risen  against  him  and  pecked  him  to  death.  Every 
body  else  was  polite  but  incredulous,  and  spoke 
coldly  to  Caesar,  the  milk-white  cat  with  beryl 
eyes,  who  kept  almost  ostentatiously  away  from 
the  dining-room. 

"Of  course,"  said  Prima  bitterly,  "you  won't 


282  ON     OUR     HILL 

believe  it,  because  you  think  he  is  so  beautiful ! 
If  anything  is  beautiful,  you  think  it  must  be 
right!" 

Our  Mother  stopped  eating  and  stared  wanly 
at  her  daughter. 

''Why  do  you  —  what  on  earth  makes  you - 
Prima,  how  can  you  ..."  she  began. 

'Then  why  haven't  you  given  him  away,  long 
before?"  the  unsparing  girl  goes  on. 

"What  good  does  he  do?  There's  nothing  you 
can  keep,  scarcely,  that  cats  don't  chase.  The 
way  he  sits  and  watches  those  birds  .  .  .  the 
green  one's  neck  is  just  broken,  that's  what  it  is: 
he  did  it  with  his  paw.  I  call  it  cruel." 

It  is  perfectly  true  that  Caesar  loves  nobody  but 
himself,  and  gets  so  dirty  in  the  coal-cellar  that 
Our  Mother  has  to  clean  him  with  corn-meal. 
But  when  one  imports  a  cat  of  his  perfections 
from  Massachusetts  —  in  a  soap-box  —  and  up 
sets  the  entire  American  Express  System  in  order 
to  get  him  delivered  on  a  Sunday,  it  is  unthink 
able  that  he  should  be  sacrificed  because  he  has 
been  seen  to  measure  with  his  limpid,  beryl  eyes 
the  distance  between  the  glass  cabinet,  the  win 
dow-ledge,  and  the  big  bird-cage. 

So  at  this  point  Our  Mother  creates  a  wily 
diversion. 


One  green  paroquet  died  in  circumstances  of 
deepest  mystery 


OUR    FIRST     FRIENDS        283 

"You  know,  somebody  who  was  here  once  said 
that  if  one  of  a  pair  of  love-birds  died,  the  other 
always  did,  shortly  afterward,"  she  suggests.  "I 
think  we  ought  to  watch  this  one  very  carefully. 
And  then  they  could  be  buried  together.  ..." 

It  is  many  days  later  that  Our  Governess  - 
our  new  one,  who  knows  so  many  things  that  she 
has  never  had  time  to  study  the  workings  of  a 
mind   like   Secunda's  —  approaches    Our  Mother 
with  an  expression  of  horror. 

"Could  you  take  the  time  to  come  to  Secunda's 
room  with  me,"  she  says,  in  tones  of  violently 
suppressed  emotion,  "and  tell  me  what  you  think 
can  be  there?  I  have  thought  for  some  days 
that  there  must  be  some  reason  for  the  unspeak 
ably  disagreeable  effect  - 

At  this  point  the  pretty  little  chambermaid  ap 
pears  suddenly  before  them,  her  features  con 
tracted  into  the  same  curious  expression  which  has 
tilted  the  first  envoy's  nose.  In  her  hand,  ex 
tended  to  arm's  length,  is  a  small,  innocent-look 
ing  pasteboard  box. 

"This  I  think  should  not  be  any  longer  kept," 
she  begins,  and  the  same  violently  suppressed 
emotion  thrills  her  voice,  in  turn. 

"I  am  looking  for  it  often,  and  now,  at  last,  I 
find  it.  Where  shall  I  throw  it?" 


284  ON    OUR    HILL 

A  whirling  bound,  a  swishing  of  short  skirts,  a 
furious,  scarlet  face  at  the  door ! 

"Give  me  that !  Prima  gave  it  to  you  !  Don't 
you  touch  that  sparrow!  I'm  saving  it  for  the 
funeral !" 

"Secunda,  dearest,  do  you  mean  —  you  can't 
mean  - 

"Under  the  stockings  it  was,"  adds  the  little 
chambermaid.  "I  had  to  air  the  drawer 

"I  have  no  time!  I  have  no  time!"  Secunda 
wails  in  fury.  "How  can  I  get  anything  done  if 
I  have  to  practise  and  learn  my  part  in  the  play, 
and  change  my  boots  all  day?  That  is  only  a 
common,  little  outdoors  bird  that  I  found  in  the 
road,  and  I  was  planning  the  funeral  for  Saturday, 
when  I  do  get  a  minute,  and  then,  when  the  paro 
quet  died,  I  meant  to  have  a  really  good  one,  and 
we  could  have  dressed  up ! 

"  (Oh  !     Don't  throw  it  away  !     Give  it  to  me  !) 

"And  then  you  said  the  other  paroquet  might, 
so  I  thought  it  would  be  more  sensible  to  wait  and 
see,  and  have  it  all  in  one !" 

"It  is  an  age  of  efficiency,"  says  Our  Mother, 
shaking  her  head  vaguely.  "Open  the  windows, 
somebody. 

"My  dear  girl,  death  is  one  of  the  things  that 
must  be  dealt  with  as  it  occurs," 


OUR    FIRST    FRIENDS        285 

"But  what  can  I  do?  Would  you  count  it 
'exercise*  if  I  had  the  funeral?  I  have  no  time!" 

"The  way  to  do,"  says  Our  Mother,  ascending 
the  tripod  and  becoming  the  very  Pythoness  in 
mid-oracle,  "the  way  to  do  —  stop  jumping  about 
so,  Secunda!--is  to  bury  them,  as  they  die,  un 
officially,  and  then,  in  your  first  free  time,  have  the 
ceremonies  over  them  all  together.  I  will  write 
you  an  epitaph." 

"Oh!  Darling!"  sighs  Secunda,  and  the  cor 
tege  files  out,  and  we  open  the  glass  jar  of  lavender 
salts. 

Dicky,  the  first  canary,  got  very  dull  and  lonely 
when  that  exodus  from  the  nursery  began,  so  im 
perceptibly,  so  insidiously. 

First,  the  breakfast  moved  down  to  the  dining- 
room,  and  after  a  while  an  oaken  "youth's  chair," 
not  the  ordinary  "high  chair"  of  infancy,  followed 
Tertius,  and  took  the  place  of  the  tooled  leather 
volumes  that  soon  showed  the  wear  and  tear  re 
sulting  from  his  daily  impact.  Then,  tea  proved 
to  be  quite  practicable,  there,  and  saved  some 
body's  pulling  up  the  heavy  dumb-waiter  to  the 
second  floor.  Then  games  of  a  perfectly  adult 
nature  began  to  be  played,  and  a  baize  card-table 
was  established  in  the  library;  chess  was  men 
tioned.  One  does  not  play  chess  in  the  nursery. 


286  ON     OUR    HILL 

Maps  began  to  cover  the  Noah's  Ark  frieze,  and 
the  blackboard  hid  the  aquarium.  People  who 
listen  to  "David  Copperfieldj"  and  Mrs.  Ewing  do 
not  sit  in  a  nursery  for  that  purpose:  they  use  the 
library. 

So  that  before  we  realized  it,  Dicky  swung  lonely 
in  his  cage,  and  met  his  friends  only  when  they 
snatched  a  little  grumbling  time  to  clean  it. 

When  the  giant  brass  palace  that  held  the  eight 
wonderful  birds  came  up  the  hill,  Our  Mother  re 
membered  that  Dicky  no  longer  filled  the  bed 
room  floor  with  chirps  and  trills,  and  that  long, 
liquid  note  that  was  his  (and  our)  pride,  and  sug 
gested  throwing  in  his  lot  with  the  others. 

"Not  if  you  want  him  to  sing,"  declared  the 
new  chauffeur  firmly. 

"Just  as  you  say,  of  course,  but  birds  together 
don't  sing.  Leave  him  down  with  'em,  but  keep 
him  in  his  cage." 

"But  they  sing  because  they're  happy,  don't 
they?" 

"No,  ma'am.  They  sing  because  they're 
lonely,"  said  the  chauffeur. 

Our  Mother  stood,  wide-eyed,  lost  in  the  idea. 

"Why,  Julius,  how  perfectly  wonderful!"  she 
mused.  "Like  Heine !  Then  it's  really  true." 


OUR    FIRST    FRIENDS        287 

"I  don't  know  Heiney,"  says  Julius,  "but  it's 
true  enough.  Did  he  tell  you  that?" 

;<  'Auf  meinen  grossen  Schmerzen 
Mack  ich  die  Kleine  LiederJ ' 

Our  Mother  murmurs,  "and  the  nightingale  that 
pressed  the  thorn  into  its  heart  —  why,  all  those 
things  are  true!'" 

"A  nightingale  is  more  of  a  foreign  bird,  I 
guess,"  says  Julius.  "I  suppose  it  was  after  some 
insects  when  it  happened.  Well,  do  you  want 
'em  in  together?" 

"Oh,  no!  Oh,  no!  Keep  him  lonely!"  Our 
Mother  cries,  and  gazes  at  his  unconscious  little 
swelling  throat  thereafter  with  the  pleasant  pain 
that  only  Art  can  bring ! 

But  how  they  die  !     One  feeds  them  and  washes 

them,  and  exercises  them,  and  grooms  them  for 

years,  and  suddenly,  like  the  person  in  the  Bible 

-  they  are  not.     One  hopes  that  some  God  of 

Good  Beasts  takes  them  to  Himself  at  the  last. 

Our  Mother,  whose  tears  flow  only  for  animals 
and  servants,  swears  at  each  long  good-by  that 
she  will  never  love  another;  only  to  lay  her  bat 
tered  heart  between  the  paws  of  her  next  respon 
sibility  ! 


288  ON     OUR    HILL 

When  three  beautiful,  brave  Dane  puppies  fell, 
each  in  his  turn,  a  victim  to  the  dreadful  railroad 
(they  could  never  understand  why  the  puffing 
black  monster  refused  to  move  from  the  rails 
when  they  walked  there),  even  Our  Mother's 
optimism  bent  and  broke. 

"I  don't  want  any  more,"  she  said,  and  dealers 
tempted  her  in  vain.  For  weeks  no  dog  disturbed 
Cornelia  browsing  in  her  pasture  on  the  hill,  and 
her  granddaughters,  Arria  and  Virginia  (Horatia, 
her  daughter,  had  been  Prima's  pet,  who  was 
wont  to  feed  her  from  a  bucket,  so  that  photo 
graphs  of  them  looked  like  French  impressionist 
studies),  wandered  about  with  the  donkey,  un- 
teased. 

We  had  even  begun  to  look  —  a  little  languidly 
-  into  the  matter  of  rabbits,  a  wide  subject,  to 
be  approached  (quite  literally)  from  many  sides. 
For  no  one  can  envisage,  even  intellectually,  one 
rabbit  for  any  considerable  period  of  time.  It  is 
quite  certain  that  few  of  the  ancient  Egyptians 
can  have  lived  in  country  houses,  for  instance,  or 
the  Lord  would  never  have  selected  so  compara 
tively  innocuous  a  plague  as  locusts,  in  order  to 
achieve  the  Exodus  of  the  Israelites:  He  would 
have  indubitably  hit  upon  rabbits.  For  rabb  ts 


OUR    FIRST    FRIENDS        289 

accrue  like  the  dread  unearned  increment  of  Mr. 
Henry  George;  they  amass  themselves  like  the 
colossal  interest-moneys  of  the  great  American 
captains  of  finance;  they  cry  out  for  incarnation 
even  as  the  legions  of  the  unborn  beset  the  imagi 
nations  of  the  tortured  Mormon  prophets.  Briefly, 
a  home  which  includes  these  gentle  beasts  can  no 
longer  properly  be  called  a  home:  it  is  a  rabbit- 
warren. 

''There's  no  one  to  break  their  backs  now," 
we  pondered,  "and  we  could  extend  a  wire  bar 
rier  two  feet  below  the  ground.  .  .  .  And  Ter- 
tius  has  nothing,  really,  of  his  very  own.  .  .  ." 

And  then  came  Ninette.  A  fascinating  fluff  of 
inky  curls;  a  pair  of  melting,  beseeching  brown 
eyes;  paws  that  slipped  about  one's  neck;  a 
satin  muzzle  that  cuddled  beneath  one's  ear  — 
a  baby  French  poodle ! 

Her  diet,  her  training,  her  morals  were  the 
passionate  problem  of  every  soul  upon  Our  Hill. 
Hitherto  inviolate  privacies  became  her  pleasure- 
grounds;  hitherto  sacred  hours  her  holiday  sea 
sons.  Beds  whereon  even  Tertius  might  not 
jump  were  hers  for  snoozing;  lace  pillows  that 
Prima  might  not  pat  knew  the  silky  blackness  of 
her  ears;  mirrors  banned  to  Secunda's  moist 


290  ON     OUR    HILL 

pink  fingers  were  smeared  by  her  inquiring  nose. 

At  the  anguished  cry, 

"Run!  Run!  Take  Nini  out-of-doors!"  dig 
nified  dinner-guests  tossed  aside  their  dinner- 
napkins,  fled  from  their  lukewarm  soup,  and  pre 
cipitated  themselves,  hatless,  into  the  night. 
Her  sobs  wrung  our  hearts;  her  sulks  called  forth 
every  alleviating  artifice;  her  growth,  that  almost 
hourly  miracle,  became  the  chief  subject  of  Our 
Mother's  babblings. 

To  wash  and  comb  her  grew  from  a  thrilling 
privilege  into  a  dread  responsibility,  and  the  daily 
schedule  of  each  infant  was  based  on  the  margin 
of  time  left  over  from  each  one's  several  duties 
as  regarded  her. 

"She's  washing  the  dog;  could  you  not  give 
the  message?"  resounded  monotonously  from  that 
terrible  convenience,  the  telephone;  and  the 
question  as  to  who  should  sleep  with  her,  in  Our 
Mother's  absence,  destroyed  what  brotherly  love 
adolescence  had,  up  to  that  point,  left  unspoiled 
in  the  bosom  of  Tertius. 

Let  others  tramp  the  links;  for  others  the  bridle 
paths,  the  trout-streams,  and  the  marble  swim 
ming-pools  of  neighboring  estates  —  it  is  Satur 
day,  and  Our  Mother  is  dedicated  to  soap-suds. 


OUR    FIRST    FRIENDS        291 

"First  I  will  do  Prima  and  Ninette  —  they  take 
so  long  to  dry,"  she  announces,  "but,  Secunda  and 
Tertius,  you  must  stay  about  where  you  can  hear 
the  whistle !  Tertius,  bring  me  the  brushes  and 
combs." 

Prima's  tawny  mane  emerges  from  the  bath- 
towel;  the  marble  floor  is  a  slippery  lake,  the 
bath-spray,  pointed  to  the  ceiling,  descends  in 
showers  along  the  walls. 

"I  think  you've  used  the  dog-soap  on  me,"  she 
gurgles. 

"Prima  !  How  disgusting  of  you  !" 
"I  can't  help  it  —  I  tried  to  tell  you,  but  you 
said  it  would  be  my  own  fault  if  it  got  in  my 
mouth!--!  don't  care,  anyhow--!  love  the 
smell.  And  now  I  can  kiss  her  more,  and  I  won't 
get  the  fleas!" 

"Now,  dry  the  rest  yourself  —  my  arms  ache. 
Where's  Secunda?" 

"I  wish  I  didn't  have  all  this  hair  —  Secunda 
has  an  easy  time.  Why  couldn't  mine  be  wavy  ? 
I'm  the  oldest  .  .  ." 

"You  are  also  the  silliest.  Where  is  your 
brush?" 

"She  scarcely  ever  has  a  brush,  generally," 
says  Tertius  solemnly.  "'Cunda  has  it  for  a 


292  ON    OUR    MILL 

currycomb  mostly.  My  comb  is  rather  broke, 
because  I  took  Ninette's  burrs  out  that  day  we 
came  across  the  fields." 

"I  do,  then.  Tertius,  you  shouldn't  tell  lies. 
Who  took  Secunda's  brush  and  swept  the  crumbs 
off  with  it  ?  I  notice  you  never  tell  those  things  ! 
Who  used  the  nail-brush  for  his  hair  this  very 
morning?" 

"Be  quiet,  Prima.  You  are  all  too  filthy  for 
words.  What  is  the  use  of  Aunty  giving  you 
lovely  things  with  monograms?" 

"I  don't  care  —  I'd  rather  not  have  them.     If 

you  have  nice  things,  they're  just  that  much  more 

to  bother  about.     I'd  rather  just  be  dirty,  for  now 

-  when  I'm  married,  of  course  it  will  be  different ! " 

"Bring  Secunda,"  says  Our  Mother  briefly. 

"Secunda,  what  have  you  on  your  head?" 

One  always  gasps  at  Secunda.  It  is  only  a  paper 
lamp-shade,  inverted,  and  those  objects  on  her  feet 
are  only  rubber  boots;  but  when  she  puts  her  hands 
on  her  hips,  smiles  over  her  shoulder,  and  says, 

"I  am  one  of  those  Russian  persons  that  dance  !" 
one  can  only  gasp  again. 

"So  I  supposed." 

"Don't  I  look  nice,  Muddy?" 

"You  look,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  perfectly  beau- 


OUR     FIRST     FRIENDS         293 

tiful,"  says  Our  Mother  wearily,  "but  what  is 
the  use?  Nobody  in  Your  Family  was  ever  in 
the  Petrograd  corps  de  ballet,  and  you'd  have  to 
enter  directly  if  you  intended  to  take  it  up.  I'm 
sure  they  wouldn't  like  it." 

Volumes  might  be  written  on  the  persistent 
failure  of  children  to  wash  their  necks.  Why  is 
this?  Not  one  but  squirms  and  screams  and  re 
sents  the  process  as  an  intrusion  upon  his  holiest 
privacy.  That  narrow  belt  of  deliciously  kissable 
territory  is,  from  the  point  of  view  of  infancy,  as 
inaccessible,  as  mysterious  as  the  Pole  to  Peary, 
as  the  Albert  Nyanza  lakes  to  Livingstone !  Our 
Mother  is  convinced  that  great  Achilles  himself 
went  down  to  his  lamented  death,  vulnerable, 
alas,  not  in  his  heel,  but  the  back  of  his  neck  - 
because  Thetis,  his  mother,  could  not,  for  the 
best  of  reasons,  wash  him  there ! 

Now  they  shriek  under  the  cold  spray,  now  they 
protrude  pink  noses  from  the  Turk-like  coif  of 
the  towel,  now  they  gather  the  damp  and  squirm 
ing  poodle  to  their  smocks,  and  roll,  scattering 
spray  about  the  new-swept  bedroom  rugs.  Now 
Our  Mother,  with  set  teeth,  washes  the  grimy 
brushes  and  the  toothless  ctfmbs  they  bring  her. 

Why  must  she  do  this?     There  is  not  —  there 


294  ON     OUR    HILL 

has  never  been  —  any  other  way.  No  governess 
-  those  high-strung,  intellectualized  creatures, 
quivering  at  the  insulting  suspicion  of  menial 
tasks,  uncertain  of  social  status  —  could  be  asked ; 
no  chambermaid,  vowed  to  ammonia  and  all  al 
kalies  not  wisely  but  too  well,  should  be.  If  ever 
lines  of  powdered  footmen  fill  Our  Mother's  halls, 
if  ever  she  has,  like  the  lady  in  the  song,  "vassals 
and  serfs  at  her  side,"  she  sees  herself  still,  in 
prophetic  vision,  washing  the  combs  and  brushes 
of  her  princely  establishment. 

"Oh!  Nini  has  got  out!  She's  rolling  on  the 
lawn  !  Come  on,  come  on  !" 

They  are  all  out  together.  Our  Mother,  soaked 
to  the  skin,  plunges  after  them. 

"Come  back !  Do  you  want  to  get  pneumonia 
—  all  of  you?"  she  shrieks,  but  they  are  off  be 
hind  the  water-tower. 

"Sit  down  and  rest,  why  not?"  the  interested 
spectator  urges;  "they're  all  right.  You're  more 
worried  about  the  dog,  anyway,  /  believe!" 

He  means  well,  but  he  has  never  seen  the  cem 
etery  on  the  north  slope  behind  the  pig-pen, 
beyond  the  stable,  where  a  cleared  and  solemn 
square  receives,  one  by  one,  these  friends  of  ours. 

Dear  old  Major,  our  first  horse,  whose  heart 


OUR    FIRST    FRIENDS        297 

broke  after  one  last  furious  dash  for  the  train; 
Barry,  head  of  his  dynasty,  who  had  to  be  helped 
out  of  a  life  that  had  come  to  mean  only  pain  to 
him  (those  tears  still  burn  Our  Mother's  eyes !) ; 
Sandra,  his  mate,  lithe  and  beautiful,  loving,  but 
treacherous  at  the  last;  Dicky  the  First,  whom 
Prima  selected  on  her  earliest  journey  through 
the  city  streets  —  who  will  go  next? 

Kate,  the  big,  gentle  mare?  Daisy,  the  grace 
ful,  uncertain  little  pony,  who  carries  Prima,  in 
full  cowboy  equipment,  careering  up  the  bank  and 
down  the  hill?  Mrs.  Rowdy,  Punk's  successor, 
with  the  brown  cross  stamped  forever  on  her  pa 
tient  back  —  relic  of  the  Cross  her  honored  an 
cestor  carried  up  the  slopes  of  Calvary?  Dicky 
the  Second,  pouring  out  of  his  lonely  heart  that 
prize  of  sorrow  —  song  ? 

Ah,  touch  us  gently,  Time !  We  know  the 
Gods  are  laughing  at  us;  we  know  that  Caesar 
will  catch  the  goldfish,  those  living  jewels  that 
give  Our  Mother  such  joy  when  she  dips  them 
into  their  green,  sun-streaked  water;  we  know  that 
Nini  will  chase  Caesar;  that  Daisy  will  kick  Nini; 
that  Punk  will  bite  at  Daisy;  that  Arria,  that 
haughty  Roman  matron,  will  lunge  with  her  horned 
brow  at  Punk. 


298  ON     OUR     HILL 

They  must  prey  forever  on  each  other,  as  we, 
their  blind  and  warring  masters,  preyed  from  the 
beginning  until  now  upon  our  brothers  in  misery. 

Do  we  keep  them  to  remind  us  of  the  Pit 
whence  we  were  digged?  Are  they  the  victims 
of  our  lust  for  dominance,  or  only  the  outlets  for 
our  wells  of  love,  still  bubbling,  after  all  the 
kisses  have  been  paid  and  all  the  hearts  are 
broken,  or  gone  to  other  healing  than  ours?  Do 
we  feel  obscurely  that  they  are  our  only  friends, 
when  all  is  said  and  done,  because  they  only  are 
uncritical,  because  they  only  have  failed  to  let 
us  see  that  we  have  some  time,  somehow,  failed 
them  ? 

God  knows.  But  in  their  cemetery,  pine- 
walled  and  ivy-grown,  Our  Family  shall  keep 
their  memory  ever  green. 


PRESTO !    CHANGE ! 


AVE  ATQUE  VALE! 

OH,  once  we  were  so  near,  so  near, 
But  now  we  drift  apart, 
And  we  who  were  so  dear,  so  dear, 
So  linked  heart  in  heart, 
Begin  to  walk  our  separate  ways, 
Unburdened  by  our  yesterdays. 

We  ran  along  the  little  years, 

Together,  hand  in  hand, 

But  now  the  parting  road  appears, 

Alone,  all  three,  you  stand. 

You  stretch  your  hands  and  smile  and  call, 

One  path  too  narrow  for  us  all. 

Prima  must  carve  her  virgin  trail, 

A  lonely  mountaineer; 

Before  Secunda's  feet  the  vale 

Spreads  flowery  and  clear; 

Oh,  Tertius,  see,  my  path  is  wide — 

Walk  yet  a  little  by  my  side! 

You  stretch  your  hands,  and  smile  and  call, 

But  still  you  run  ahead, 

For  Life  has  spread  a  feast  for  all, 

And  Death  for  each  a  bed. 

His  life  each  man  must  live  alone, 

His  heart  each  child  must  call  his  own 


Hail  and  farewell !    I  bade  you  in, 

Now  you  must  find  your  way. 

My  road  droops  to  the  dusk,  you  win 

The  wonder  of  the  day. 

But  while  we  wave  our  hands  and  smile, 

We'll  love,  dears,  through  the  last,  long  mile 


PRESTO  !    CHANGE  ! 

OUR  Mother  is  still  dazed  and  blinking  from 
the  shock  of  it. 

It  was  all  so  sudden,  so  without  warning,  so  un 
like  what  she  had  supposed  it  would  be ! 

Of  course  one  knows  that  such  things  happen 
to  other  families;  they  grow  up  and  move  away 
and  change,  and  one  doesn't  notice  it  very  much. 

"How  plain  the  Jones  child  is,  with  half  her 
teeth  missing!"  one  says,  or,  "How  rough  that 
little  Smith  boy  is  growing  —  he  was  such  a  beau 
tiful  little  boy!" 

"Oh,  well,  you  have  to  expect  it,"  somebody 
else  answers  philosophically,  and  we  wag  our 
heads  in  agreement. 

But  not  Our  Family  !  How  could  it  be  ?  The 
future  stretched  ahead  in  a  sort  of  haze  —  bloomy 
green  in  midsummer,  snow-powdered  in  winter, 
faintly  rose-budded  and  feathery  in  the  spring. 
The  long  tea-hour  would  always  linger  on  the 
wide  veranda;  the  overlapping,  dull  blue  hills 
would  fold  into  receding  vistas,  all  the  miles  away 
across  the  glinting  Hudson;  changeless  guests 
would  rave  about  the  gaudy  sunsets  and  the  deli- 

303 


304  ON    OUR    HILL 

cate  moon-risings,  and  eternal  puppies  would  lol 
lop  and  splurge  about  the  feet  of  the  unwary. 

And  Tertius?  Our  Mother  realizes  now  that 
she  had  inevitably  seen  him  gazing  raptly  at  her 
over  his  blue  bib  with  "Bebe  a/aim"  embroidered 
on  it!  Of  course  she  would  have  told  you  that 
she  didn't  thus  see  him,  and  that  she  knew  he 
would  carry  disgusting  things  in  his  pockets  one 
day,  lose  his  adorable  smile,  and  talk  roughly  to 
his  sisters.  But  she  would  have  been  speaking 
academically,  by  the  light  of  reason,  a  priori  (if 
that  is  what  a  priori  means).  In  her  heart  she 
would  be  seeing  him  as  I  tell  you  —  smiling  over 
a  spoonful  of  porridge. 

Even  his  first  going  to  school  made  little  dif 
ference;  so  many  of  these  long-looked-for  crises 
fail  to  measure  up  to  our  expectations.  He  sim 
ply  started  off  one  morning  in  the  car  with  Prima 
and  Secunda  and  a  new  pencil-box;  and  though  a 
conscientious  governess  fairly  drove  Our  Mother 
into  going  on  the  return  trip  to  fetch  them  and 
receive,  on  bended  knees,  so  to  speak,  his  first  - 
his  very  first  —  utterances,  it  really  wasn't  worth 
the  disgusted  shock  of  seeing  him  prancing  about, 
unguarded,  on  a  much-travelled  State  road,  wait 
ing  for  her. 


PRESTO!     CHANGE!  305 

"How  was  it,  precious?"  she  asked  at  length, 
and  he  answered: 

"Oh,  all  right,"  and  the  incident  was  closed. 

Later  on,  to  a  persistent  "But  what  did  you 
do?  Surely,  something  happened?"  he  replied 
vaguely : 

"The  ladies  talked  --  that  was  all." 

In  fact,  of  all  those  first  four  months  of  his 
education,  only  one  really  glowing  detail  stands 
out.  Nobody  believes,  of  course,  that  he  said  it. 
They  are  polite  about  it,  but  they  believe  Our 
Mother  made  it  up,  which  she  is  utterly  incapable 
of  having  done. 

It  concerned,  of  course,  arithmetic,  that  terrible 
acid  test  of  any  really  efficient  education.  Why, 
oh,  why,  is  it  so  important  —  arithmetic  ?  And 
who,  oh,  who  decided,  once  for  all,  that  it  should 
be?  Is  it  in  the  Bible?  Is  it  in  the  Constitu 
tion  ?  Though  Our  Family  should  speak  with  the 
tongues  of  men  and  of  angels  it  profiteth  them 
nothing;  they  rank  in  those  awe-inspiring  reports 
that  come  in  every  month  as  "Culturally  very  high; 
low  in  form"  And  "form"  is  —  arithmetic.  It 
cannot  be  disguised. 

"It  isn't  that  I  mind  adding,"  Tertius  explains. 
"I  can  add  all  right.  But  I  forget  to  put  down 


306  ON    OUR    HILL 

that  little  extra  one  over  that  the  others  remem 
ber.  I  forget  where  they  put  it." 

"I  know,"  says  Our  Mother  sadly,  "I  know." 

"If  adding  is  broad  and  thin,  only  two  lines  of 
it,  you  know,  I  do  pretty  well,"  he  goes  on  con 
fidentially.  "I  don't  care  how  wide  across  the 
page  you  make  it.  But  those  tall  thin  ones  —  oh, 
I  hate  them!" 

"I  hate  them  too,  precious,"  she  comforts  him. 
"Now  let's  do  some.  How  much  is  twenty -four 
and  seven?" 

"Thirty-one,"  he  says  promptly. 

"  Good  !     Thirty -four  and  seven  ?  " 

"Thirty-nine!" 

"Oh,  darling!" 

"Forty-three?" 

"Tertius!     Think!" 

"Forty  — forty-one!" 

"  Good  !     Forty-four  and  seven  ?  " 

"Fifty-one!" 

"Fourteen  and  seven?" 

"Twenty-one!" 

We  keep  at  it  steadily,  till  even  ninety-four  and 
seven  has  no  terrors  for  us. 

"Now,  you  see,  darling,  how  it  is  —  how  it 
must  be,"  she  concludes  triumphantly.  "When- 


PRESTO!     CHANGE!  307 

ever,  wherever,  however  you  get  four  and  seven,  it 
must  always  be  eleven  —  some  kind  of  eleven. 
They  always  go  together." 

4 Yes,"  he  says,  convinced,  "I  see.  I  see  now. 
And  they  always  are  together,"  he  adds  lumi 
nously.  "Anyway,  don't  you  know, 

"If  it  rains  before  seven, 
It  clears  before  eleven"? 

This  he  said  while  walking  around  the  Triangle 
just  in  front  of  the  beautiful  red-leaved  poisoned 
oak  from  which  Our  Mother  picked  the  top 
branches  in  the  autumn  and  had  to  wear  gloves 
for  days  afterward. 

She  stopped  in  the  road. 

"Why,  Tertius,  how  wonderfully  true!"  she 
gasped,  and  vague  symbolisms,  frightening  He 
brew  hierarchies  of  sacred  numbers,  confused  her 
troubled  mind. 

Is  there,  perhaps,  some  deep,  mysterious  con 
nection  ? 

They  sat  down  on  a  sharp,  damp  rock  by  the 
road  and  kissed  each  other  excitedly. 

"I  like  you  to  be  High  Culturally,"  she  assured 
him  earnestly.  "It's  a  lot  more  entertaining,  on 
walks.  I  don't  care  about  Form." 


308  ON     OUR     HILL 

"Prima's  'poor'  in  Attitude,  too,"  he  suggested, 
"and  Secunda's  only  'fair'  in  Concentration. 
What  are  they?" 

"Oh,  goodness,  don't  ask  me!"  she  protested. 
"We  didn't  have  them  when  I  went  to  school. 
There  was  just  Deportment." 

"I  suppose  you  were  always  good  in  that?"  he 
asked  respectfully. 

She  coughed. 

"N-not  always,"  she  admitted. 

Well,  well,  those  walks  are  over  now.  Shall  we 
ever  go  round  the  Triangle  again?  How  funny 
we  must  have  been  with  all  the  animals  streaming 
out  behind  us  and  everybody  chatting  so  amiably, 
and  Our  Mother,  not  lecturing  like  the  "Rollo" 
books,  nor  gesturing  like  a  traffic  policeman,  nor 
scolding  like  a  cross  nurse,  but  just  amusing  her 
self  and  everybody  else ! 

Why  did  it  all  stop  suddenly?  Was  it  Prima 
complaining  - 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to --I'm  tired -- besides, 
that's  a  stupid  old  walk." 

"It's  stupid  because  you're  stupid,  Pri,"  says 
Secunda  snappishly.  "I  wish  you  would  go,  and 
leave  Tertius  and  me  alone,  so  we  can  play  nicely 
together.  We  have  a  secret  society  - 


PRESTO!     CHANGE! 


309 


"Ho  !  A  great  secret !  I  read  your  silly  rules. 
Stop  that,  miss,  or  you'll  get  hurt !  Stop  it  —  all 
right,  how  do  you  like  it  when  I  do  it?" 


How  disgusting  they  are  —  like  other  people's  children ! 

Prima  is  as  strong  as  a  young  heifer,  and  a  push 
from  her  sends  her  sister,  screaming  with  pain  and 
humiliation,  against  a  sharp  book-shelf  corner. 
Tertius  appears  among  them  —  or  somebody  that 


310  ONOURHILL 

resembles  Tertius.     For   it  cannot  be   his  voice 
that  yells: 

"  Shut  up  !     You  did  !     I  saw  you  ! " 

Our  Mother  listens  to  them  at  an  impersonal, 
fatigued  distance. 

How  disgusting  they  are  —  like  other  people's 
children !  How  tiresome  it  would  be  to  have  to 
separate  them  every  day !  They  are  all  of  them 
more  or  less  wrong,  you  see,  and  yet  they  are  all 
of  them  more  or  less  right.  If  Prima  will  act  so, 
Secunda  must  resent  it;  her  resentment  is  per 
fectly  characteristic,  inefficient,  righteous  in  a 
way,  but  a  little  cry-babyish.  If  she  is  so  un 
equally  downed  in  the  sisterly  contest,  the  merest 
chivalry  demands  the  entrance  of  Tertius.  And 
are  we  to  expect  the  manners  of  the  Roman  Forum 
from  him  ?  Should  we  look  for  a  legal  discussion, 
a  tactful  exhibition  of  diplomatic  policies  ?  Obvi 
ously  not.  Like  the  widow  with  her  mite,  he  has 
done  what  he  could. 

But  how  different  it  all  is  when  they  are  your 
own ! 

'  Our  Mother  knows  perfectly  well  what  she 
would  say  to  any  other  mother;  she  would  smile 
tolerantly  and  address  that  mother  as  follows: 

"My  dear  creature,  those  children  are  simply 


PRESTO!    CHANGE!  311 

healthy  -  -  human  and  healthy  !  If  they  didn't 
act  like  this,  you'd  be  sending,  by  and  by,  for  the 
doctor.  Perhaps,  when  they  join  the  angels,  they 
may  avoid  this  perfectly  normal  clash  of  person 
alities;  but  until  they  do  —  try  to  keep  your 
hands  off  them.  They're  all  right." 

Very  wise  words,  these.  But  alas,  what  says 
Eliphaz  the  Temanite  ?  Our  Mother  realizes  now 
the  feelings  of  Job  when  that  distinctly  unsatis 
factory  guest  conversed  with  him: 

But  now  it  is  come  upon  thee,  and  thou  faintest;  it  touch- 
eth  thee,  and  thou  art  troubled. 

Gone  are  the  long,  quiet  mornings  when  one 
knew  that  Robin  Hood  or  Long  John  Silver  or 
General  Washington  or  William  Tell  was  comfort 
ably  robbing  or  murdering  or  crossing  the  Dela 
ware  or  shooting  apples  somewhere  on  Our  Hill. 

'Two  of  us  can't  do  it  so  well,"  Secunda  ex 
plains,  "and  Tertius  doesn't  mind  so  nice  as  he 
used  to,  anyway.  And  Prima  is  so  horrid,  she 
won't  come  with  us,  and  when  she  does  she  gets 
Tertius  all  excited  and  fighting.  What  is  there 
to  do,  Mother,  anyway?" 

"Where  is  Prima?" 

"Oh,   she's  dawdling  about  over  the  register 


312  ON    OUR    HILL 

somewhere,  I  s'pose.  She  says  it's  too  cold  to 
stay  out  and  there's  nothing  to  do." 

"Where  is  Tertius?" 

"He's  teasing  that  spotty  cat  in  the  garage.  I 
told  him  you  wanted  us  to  keep  in  the  sun  and 
not  to  spill  water  around  in  the  harness-room, 
but  he  says  there's  nothing  to  do  in  the  sun;  so 
what'll  7  do,  Mother?" 

"Really,  I  hadn't  considered  it  necessary  to 
make  a  programme,"  Our  Mother  answers  coldly. 
"I've  never  taken  a  course  of  training  as  play- 
instructor  in  a  city  settlement  district.  I  should 
suppose  that  three  healthy  children  could  find 
something  to  interest  them  on  forty  acres  of  land." 

"Oh,  it's  interesting  enough,"  says  Secunda 
vaguely;  "but  what'll  we  do  9" 

(But  now  it  is  come  upon  thee,  and  thou  faintest.) 

"I'm  so  tired  of  these  old  books,"  Prima  grum 
bles;  "they're  only  meant  for  children,  anyway. 
Lots  of  the  girls  at  school  read  whatever  they  like, 
just  as  you  do.  Haven't  we  any  good  mystery 
stories  ?  I  like  things  about  detectives  myself.  I 
wish  we  knew  a  detective.  We  don't  seem  to 
know  any  very  interesting  people,  it  seems  to  me." 

"  You  would  be  more  interesting  to  some  mem 
bers  of  your  family,  at  least,"  Our  Mother  coun- 


PRESTO!    CHANGE!  313 

ters  briskly,  "if  you  didn't  persist  in  mixing  up 
your  clothes  so.  Don't  you  realize,  my  dear 
child,  that  when  you  wear  a  khaki  middy  blouse 
and  a  nice  brown  tie  you  look  very  well,  and  that 
when  you  wear  the  same  blouse  over  a  blue  skirt, 
with  a  green  tie  around  your  collar  and  a  brown 
bow  in  your  hair,  you  look  ridiculous?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  says  Prima  flatly.  "I  think  it's 
all  right.  What's  the  difference,  anyway  ?  Green 
and  brown  are  quite  pretty,  I  think." 

"I  always  wear  my  black  tie  with  my  blue 
sailor.  That  looks  nice,  doesn't  it,  Mother?" 
says  Secunda  virtuously. 

"Oh,  you!  You're  perfect,  of  course!  Who 
got  a  demerit  yesterday  because  her  tie  was  lost 
off?" 

"It  was  not  lost  off!  Prima,  that's  a  lie !  I 
knew  perfectly  well  where  it  was  —  it  was  tied 
around  the  fifth  banister  from  the  end,  to  remind 
me  to  go  to  room  five  for  my  French  on  Thurs 
days.  So  there!" 

"All  the  worse.  Mother  can't  afford  to  buy 
black  ties  to  tie  on  school  banisters.  And  you 
needn't  swear,  miss." 

"I  didn't  swear.  How  can  you?  I  hate  you, 
Prima!" 

"It's  almost  as  bad  as  swearing.     You  needn't 


314  ON     OUR    HILL 

get  all  excited  about  it;  you're  nearly  crying  now. 
That's  the  way  she  acts  in  her  music-lesson, 
Mother;  all  the  girls  laugh  at  her." 

"Will  you  either  stop  this,  girls,  or  leave  the 
room?  I  can't  understand  how  you  can  suppose 
that  any  grown  person  can  endure  such  senseless 
bickering." 

"But  I'm  not  bickering.  It's  Secunda  being 
tiresome." 

"I'd  rather  you  didn't  answer  me  again,  Prima." 

"All  right,  but  I'm  not  ans  -    -" 

"Prima!" 

Our  Mother  springs  to  her  feet  and  claps  her 
hands  violently  together.  Something  very  like 
sparks  flash  from  her  eyes.  It  is  all  rather  noisy 
and  horrid,  and  Prima  goes  out  sullenly,  dragging 
her  feet  in  a  heavy,  provoking  way.  The  room  is 
full  of  temper  that  has  been  lost  in  the  scuffle,  and 
one  feels  that  Mr.  Rollo,  senior,  would  not  thus 
have  ended  a  discussion  with  Master  Rollo,  junior. 
Nor  Mr.  Swiss  Family  Robinson,  for  that  matter. 

One's  friends'  children  are  often  at  that  stage. 

(But  now  ...  it  toucheth  thee,  and  thou  art  troubled.) 

It  is  necessary  to  be  philosophical  here,  and 
Our  Mother  begins  to  talk  to  herself  in  the  man- 


PRESTO!     CHANGE!  315 

ner,  say,  of  Epictetus,  or  the  royal  philosopher 
whose  meditations  have  set  us  such  an  example 
in  that  fashion: 

You  complain  of  their  quarrelling.  Well,  you  cannot,  as 
things  are,  have  much  of  that  to  endure,  since  they  are  so 
little  in  your  house. 

This  sounds  well  and  has  the  further  advantage 
of  being  true,  because  from  half  past  eight  in  the 
morning  until  half  past  five  in  the  afternoon,  for 
five  days  in  the  week,  the  three  are  now  at  school. 
Long  hours  of  unbroken  quiet  stretch  before  her; 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  there  is  altogether  too  much 
quiet  to  the  square  inch  ! 

Particularly  is  this  true  in  the  laundry,  for  in 
stance,  where,  owing  to  the  absence  of  a  laundress 
-any  laundress  whatever  —  the  resulting  quiet 
is  distinctly  appalling.  How  welcome  now  would 
be  to  Our  Mother's  ear  the  shrill  yelp  of  the  once 
detested  Hungarian  babies,  who  were  wont  to 
accompany  their  mother,  the  gardener's  wife,  up 
the  Hill !  But  their  father,  the  gardener,  quar 
relled  irretrievably  with  the  cook,  and  their 
mother,  the  laundress,  quarrelled  irrevocably  with 
the  wife  of  the  chauffeur  (which  sounds  like  one 
of  Prima's  French  exercises),  and  all  this,  though 


316  ON    OUR    HILL 

utterly  immaterial  to  Our  Mother,  cannot,  un 
fortunately,  be  remedied  by  violent  clappings  of 
the  hands  nor  alleviated  by  philosophy.  For  ed 
ucation,  however  negligible  its  effects  upon  the 
mind  may  be,  is  horribly  soiling  to  the  garments, 
and  it  is  clear  that  three  children  discolor  three 
times  as  many  clothes  as  one  child,  no  matter 
how  little  arithmetic  you  may  know.  And  five 
laundresses  were  three  times  as  easy  to  engage 
two  years  ago  as  one  laundress  this  year.  This 
problem  is  not  in  the  books,  because  the  arithme 
tic  man  was  never  forced  to  envisage  anything  so 
practical;  but  it  is  Our  Mother's  sad  and  harass 
ing  duty  to  determine,  as  he  puts  it,  the  answer, 
and  the  answer  is  just  as  definite  and  inescapable 
as  any  answer  in  the  back  of  Prima's  teacher's 
book. 

And  as  the  earnest  student  finds  himself,  no 
matter  how  temperamentally  at  variance  with 
his  task,  more  and  more  expert,  as  time  goes  on, 
more  and  more  inclined  to  advance  the  standard 
of  his  daring,  so  Our  Mother,  after  one  winter 
term  of  isolated  and  gloomy  concentration  upon 
these  mysteries,  found  herself  facing  problems 
more  and  more  advanced,  more  and  more  star 
tling,  till  at  last,  on  the  cold  and  sleety  evening  of 


PRESTO!     CHANGE!  317 

a  terrible  January  day,  huddling  over  a  smoky 
library  fire,  she  listened  to  the  drip  of  the  slushy 
rain  pouring  from  a  rusted  gutter,  and  confronted 
her  final  examination-paper  on  Our  Hill: 

If  three  servants,  arriving  at  11  A.  M.  at  a  country  house 
containing  eighteen  rooms,  five  baths,  and  three  children 
who  spend  three-quarters  of  their  time  at  school,  leave  the 
same  house  at  1  P.  M.,  how  long  will  two  servants  remain  in 
a  city  apartment  containing  six  rooms,  one  bath  and  one 
child,  who  spends  seven-eighths  of  his  time  at  school  ? 

This  problem,  needless  to  say,  requires  a  knowl 
edge  of  what  the  algebra  book  calls  Permutations 
and  Combinations.  But  as  this  is  a  subject  in 
which  Our  Mother  excels  by  nature,  she  solved 
it  in  exactly  four  minutes,  and  had  all  the  trunks 
brought  up  from  the  cellar. 

" Now  I  s'pose  Prima'll  be  contented,"  Secunda 
suggests  hopefully.  "She's  always  saying  she 
hasn't  got  any  friends  her  own  age,  and  the  girls 
begin  to  have  fun  as  soon  as  she  leaves  school, 
and  all  the  parties,  and  everything.  Now  she 
can  go  with  the  fourteen-year-old  girls,  and  let 
me  alone  for  a  minute,  maybe!" 

"That  is  what  one  hopes,"  Our  Mother  replies 
absently.  "Prima,  will  you  please  move  off  that 


318  ON    OUR    HILL 

pile  of  undervests?  Now,  you  have  four  heavy 
ones,  four  middle-weight  ones,  and  I  can't  find 
but  three  of  those  summer  ones.  I  have  every 
body  else's 

'' Those  piles  are  all  wrong,"  Priina  announces 
heavily. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

It  is  impossible  not  to  heed  her;  when  she  ap 
plies  this  Cassandra  tone  to  domestic  crises  there 
is  only  too  often  something  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

'You've  forgotten  that  they've  all  been  given 
down  once,  haven't  you?  That  'P'  really  ought 
to  be  an  'S,'  and  Tertius  was  wearing  Secunda's 
things  last  year.  Don't  you  remember  they  had 
too  many  of  everything,  because  Tertius  didn't 
grow  as  much  as  you  expected,  and  I  had  nothing 
at  all?  I  was  to  have  new  this  spring." 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake!"  Our  Mother  wails, 
"and  we've  used  up  all  the  'Prima'  labels !" 

Panting  women,  working  against  time,  have 
been  feverishly  stitching  dreadful  red  labels  with 
"Prima"  and  "Secunda"  onto  stockings  and  hand 
kerchiefs  and  stockings  and  petticoats  and  stock 
ings  and  wash-cloths  and  stockings.  They  write 
"Prima"  in  indelible  ink  on  the  margins  of  ga 
loshes,  and  carve  "Secunda"  upon  slippery  tooth- 


PRESTO!     CHANGE!  319 

brushes.  In  harassed  dreams  Our  Mother  tries 
to  engrave  the  names  upon  shoe-buttons,  as  art 
ists  once  engraved  the  Lord's  Prayer  on  cherry 
stones,  and  everywhere  we  go  stockings  drip  down 
upon  us  from  above  and  writhe  upward  from 
below.  Our  Mother,  Our  Governess,  and  Our 
Seamstress  bump  into  one  another  on  the  stairs, 
from  trying  to  read,  as  they  run,  that  terrible  list 
of  articles  required  by  Our  School:  One  heavy 
sweater,  one  light  sweater,  one  light,  plain  dress, 
suitable  for  evening,  which  shall  not  be  made  of  silk, 
nor  be  trimmed  with  silk,  nor  be  lined  with  silk. 

'These  rules  ought  to  be  intoned  to  a  Gre 
gorian  plain-song,"  declares  Our  Mother  crossly, 
"behind  a  chancel-rail !  How  are  Secunda's  stock 
ings  coming  on?" 

''Four  black,  four  brown,  and  four  white,'  it 
says  here,"  Our  Governess  interprets,  carefully 
consulting  the  list  pinned  to  her  breast.  "But  is 
that  the  maximum  or  the  minimum,  do  you 
think?  You  told  me  a  half  dozen  of  each." 

"Oh,  goodness  gracious!"  Our  Mother  replies. 

'The  penalty  for  doing  it  wrong  is  probably  thirty 

days  on  Blackwell's  Island !     Remember  all  those 

belts   and    dickies   for   the   sailor   suits   must  be 

labelled,  too.     Are  their  names  sewed  into  their 


320  ON     OUR    HILL 

Bibles  ?     Come  here,  Secunda,  I'm  going  to  stamp 
yours  on  your  back!" 

"There  are  only  two  of  the  girls  I  wish  to  room 
with,  and  I  just  know  I  probably  can't,"  says 
Prima  gloomily.  "I  don't  care  for  the  others 
much.  I  wish  /  was  going  to  New  York.  Ter- 
tius  has  all  the  luck." 

'You  won't  be  rooming  with  me,  thank  good 
ness,"  Secunda  returns  contentedly.  "Now  I'll 
be  able  to  keep  my  bank  and  my  little  clock  and 
my  china  hen  in  my  top  drawer,  all  I  like." 

"Rooming  with  you!  Well,  I  should  certainly 
hope  not !  That's  one  reason  —  about  the  only 
one,  too  —  I'm  glad  to  go  to  boarding-school. 
And  you  wait  till  your  bureau-drawers  have  been 
inspected,  miss --then  you'll  see  if  you'll  be  al 
lowed  all  that  trash  in  them." 

"There's  no  harm  in  a  bank  and  a  china 
hen-  -" 

"Oh,  isn't  there?" 

"You  shan't  speak  so  about  my  hen!" 

"Oh,  shan't  I?" 

"Will  you  please  leave  the  room,  Prima?  Se 
cunda,  if  you  can't  control  yourself,  you  had  bet 
ter  go  to  bed  and  rest.  Has  Tertius  any  stock 
ings  at  all?" 


PRESTO!     CHANGE!  321 

"He  has  nineteen  pairs,  but  he  says  they  are 
all  too  small.  He  says  you  took  his  good  ones 
and  gave  them  to  the  girls." 

"If  I  hear  the  word  'stocking'  once  more  to 
day,"  says  Our  Mother  bitterly,  "I  shall  lie  down 
on  the  floor  and  scream !  My  whole  life  seems  to 
centre  in  these  horrible  stockings." 

The  plumbing  is  altered  again,  in  one  last,  one 
final  effort.  All  the  tinned  corn  and  tinned  to 
matoes  and  tinned  peas  are  piled  into  clothes- 
baskets  and  pushed  under  the  piano.  Caesar,  that 
inscrutable  white  cat,  runs  away,  and  everybody 
stops  packing  and  labelling  stockings  and  hunts 
through  the  woods  for  him.  Winter  hats  and 
spring  hats  and  sheet-music  and  photographs  of 
Our  Mother  and  arctic  overshoes  and  church 
gloves  and  play  gloves  and  copies  of  "Alice  in 
Wonderland"  and  stockings  —  always  stockings! 
(four  pairs  of  black,  four  pairs  of  brown,  and  four 
pairs  of  white)  — are  packed  and  unpacked  and 
repacked  and  superpacked. 

We  warm  over  what  was  left  from  yesterday 
because  it  is  foolish  to  buy  any  more  meat,  since 
we're  going  so  soon.  Prima  triumphantly  an 
nounces  that  she  can't  practise  any  more  at  home, 
because  all  the  music  was  sent  over  to  the  school, 


ON     OUR    HILL 


and  all  there  appear  at  luncheon  in  disgustingly 
soiled  and  unmatched  garments  —  "to  save  my 
others." 

Secunda  seizes  this  inconvenient 
(to  say  the  least)  occasion  to  grow 
immensely,  insanely  tall;  no  last 
spring's  skirts  reach  her  knees,  her 
wrists  dangle  ridiculously  from 
cuffs  already  "let  down"  to  their 
last  thread  of  possibility. 

"They  fitted  you  last  week,  you 
dreadful  child  !"  Our  Mother  cries. 
"Well,  you'll  just  have  to  wear 
them,  that's  all.  I  can't  help  it. 
You  ought  to  have  noticed  all 
these  things,  Secunda,  really.  A 

big  girl,  ten  years  old ' 

"But  how  could  I  know?" 
"You  should  have  known,"  Our 
Mother  persists,  unreasonably  in- 
Ceasing  her  anger.     "Now  you'll 
have  to  suffer  for  it." 

Secunda  lifts  her  thick-fringed  lids  and  flashes 
a  strange  glance  at  her  Mother. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  she  says  carelessly,  and  walks 
away. 


PRESTO!     CHANGE!  323 

An  unfamiliar  contraction  of  the  heart  seizes 
Our  Mother.  What  is  this?  Not  only  has  she 
been  most  unreasonable,  but  Secunda  knows  it, 
judges  it,  and  abandons  it.  She  walks  away,  not 
as  a  baby,  not  as  one  who  forgets  as  she  turns  on 
a  careless  heel,  but  as  one  human  being  walks 
away  from  another  human  being  —  to  get  rid  of  it. 
Our  Mother  rises  rather  heavily  from  the  lower 
stair,  and  follows  her. 

"I  don't  mean  to  be  cross,  dear,"  she  begins. 
"Of  course  you  can't  help  growing.  If  those  look 
too  bad,  I'll  send  you  up  three  new  ones  from 
town  when  I  get  there." 

And  she  kisses  the  back  of  her  daughter's  neck. 
Somehow,  Secunda  turns  her  head  more  than 
other  people  in  kissing  and  one  doesn't  remember 
her  lips,  except  in  laughter. 

"Oh,  all  right.  I  don't  mind,"  she  answers, 
obviously  embarrassed. 

"She  is  one  person,  and  I  am  another!"  Our 
Mother  realizes  suddenly. 

In  books  you  wander  sadly  through  the  rooms 
in  which  you  have  been  young  and  happy  and 
think  appropriate  thoughts  about  the  trees  and 
the  rocks  and  the  rest  of  it.  Our  Mother  sincerely 
trusted  that  she  would  know  enough  about  writ- 


324  ON    OUR    HILL 

ing  a  book  to  put  all  that  in  at  this  point.  But  as 
this  is  not  a  real  book,  but  only  what  we  actually 
did,  truth  compels  the  acknowledgment  that  no 
body  found  any  time  to  wander  about  in  the  sun 
set,  weeping  furtively  at  well-loved  spots. 

And  anyway,  when  you  consider  it,  the  chief 
associations  of  familiar  and  homely  objects  are 
rarely  sentimental  ones.  When  Our  Mother,  for 
instance,  resting  a  moment,  gazed  pensively  out 
of  the  big  drawing-room  windows  across  thirty- 
seven  miles  of  uninterrupted  landscape,  she  was 
not  thinking,  as  the  heroine  in  a  book  would  have 
been  thinking: 

"Ah,  when  shall  I  see  these  beautiful  sunsets 
again?" 

No;  she  was  murmuring  to  herself: 

"Somebody  else  can  struggle  with  the  window- 
cleaning  problem  now,  thank  heaven!" 

And,  so  far  as  she  could  judge,  very  much  the 
same  emotions  filled  the  nursery  and  the  kitchen. 

By  a  splendid  arrangement  of  Providence,  no 
demon  of  second  sight  perched  on  anybody's 
shoulder,  chuckling  prognostications  that  would 
have  poisoned  our  foaming  cups  of  the  future. 
No  hint  reached  Our  Mother  of  those  New  York 
windows,  whose  grime  increases  with  the  square 


PRESTO!    CHANGE!  325 

of  the  distance  from  the  country;  nothing  sug 
gested  to  Prima  that  schools  as  well  as  homes  have 
rules  regarding  the  driving  of  nails  into  bedroom 
walls;  Secunda's  gentian  eyes  were  mercifully 
blinded  to  the  sad  picture  of  an  impatient  little 
girl  teased  by  other  people's  sisters  as  well  as  her 
own;  Tertius,  in  inflated  fancy,  proudly  roller- 
skating  along  miles  of  park  asphalt,  was  blissfully 
ignorant  of  that  asphalt's  tendency  to  bump  and 
bruise.  Even  Nini,  thrilling  to  Our  Mother's  de 
scription  of  the  jealousy  of  other  black  poodles 
when  she  should  stalk  proudly  across  their  field  of 
vision,  never  dreamed  of  the  leash  and  the  muz 
zle  that  were  waiting  in  the  little  harness-shop 
around  the  corner.  And  Csesar  ?  White,  sinuous 
Csesar,  most  beautiful  of  all  yellow-eyed  cats, 
could  he  have  faintly  imagined  the  nerve-racking 
surprises  the  city  held  in  store  for  him  ?  Impossi 
ble. 

"Good-by,  dears;  I'll  look  in  and  see  you  to 
morrow.  Did  Julius  kill  the  broiler  for  us,  Thora  ? 
Tell  him  I  want  a  jar  of  cream  and  some  eggs. 
We'll  find  room  for  them  somehow.  Now,  Se- 
cunda,  you're  starting  off  with  really  clean  teeth; 
please  don't  make  me  feel  ashamed  of  you  when 
I  see  you  again  ! " 


326  ON     OUR     HILL 

"No,  Mother." 

A  little  shadow  of  doubt  clouds  Our  Mother's 
mind;  perhaps  Prima,  who  would  have  argued 
about  her  teeth  at  this  point,  is  at  least  as  calcula 
ble  in  regard  to  them  as  this  promptly  agreeing 
young  lady  ? 

"No  lick-and-a-promise,  mind  you!" 

"No,  Mother." 

"Pooh!  She  says  that  all  right,  but  she'll 
never  touch  'em,  except  at  night,  when  the  house 
mother's  watching  her!" 

"I  will!  You're  not  telling  the  truth,  Prima! 
Stop  shoving  me!  They're  my  teeth,  anyway!" 

"I  should  hope  they  were !  Nobody  else  wants 
them!" 

Our  Mother  stands  in  the  porch  with  one  arm 
around  Tertius  and  the  other  hand  holding  Ni 
nette's  collar.  She  gazes  at  them  impersonally. 
Already  they  are  moving  in  different  orbits  as  far 
as  she  is  concerned.  She  is  very  tired  and  the 
silver  is  yet  unpacked. 

"Dear,  dear!"  she  observes  remotely.  "How 
glad  I  am  that  /  don't  keep  a  Boarding-School  for 
Little  Girls !  Carry  the  young  ladies'  things  up 
stairs,  Julius,  when  you  get  there,  and  hurry 
back.' 


PRESTO!     CHANGE!  327 

Secunda  bursts  into  rich  chuckling. 

"You  said  that  such  a  funny  way,  Muddy!" 
she  crows. 

Prima  bunches  her  lips. 

"One  more!  One  more!"  she  begs,  and  as 
Our  Mother  jumps  to  the  footboard  and  kisses 
her  again,  her  dark  eyes  mist  a  little  at  the  mist 
in  Prima's  blue  ones. 

"I'll  write  to  you,  darling,"  she  whispers. 
"Hold  the  dog,  somebody  !  Don't  read  too  much, 
Secunda.  Good-by!" 

"The  pillow-cases  won't  go  into  that  trunk, 
after  all,"  comes  a  voice  from  the  hall,  and  life 
hurries  on.  The  girls  are  gone. 

Even  now  we  might  have  squeezed  out  a  few 
tears  if  only  there  had  been  time  to  attend  to  it 
properly.  But,  as  Tertius  put  it  so  well,  thing 
after  thing  began  to  happen  differently !  Any 
body  who  has  ever  moved  will  understand  this 
simple  explanation,  I  am  sure. 

Those  of  us  who  had  intended  to  motor  in  to 
our  new  home  suddenly  found  it  best  to  take  the 
train.  Dicky,  for  instance,  who  shrank,  huddled 
on  his  perch,  into  the  darkest  corner  of  his  news 
paper-darkened  cage,  and  Ninette,  who  sulked  re 
sentfully  in  the  baggage-car  instead  of  riding  down 


328  ON     OUR     HILL 

in  pride  beside  the  chauffeur.  But  Caesar,  that 
confirmed  wanderer,  ran  away  again  at  the  very 
last  minute,  and  had  to  come  down  in  an  inglori 
ous  waste-basket  later,  with  the  goldfish,  who 
travelled  in  a  quart  glass  preserve- jar  in  an  over 
coat  pocket  and  arrived  just  not  frozen.  Our 
Mother,  who  understands  the  most  elusive  symp 
toms  of  these  creatures  as  few  in  this  generation 
can  hope  to  understand  them,  devoted  hours  to 
giving  them  lukewarm  salt-water  baths,  only  to 
snatch  them  the  next  day  from  Caesar's  wicked 
paws. 

"But  I  thought  you  came  down  for  a  rest,"  Our 
Friends  suggest.  "It  seems  to  us  that  you  have 
brought  everything  but  the  donkey  with  you !" 

The  crippled  children's  home  has  been  the  gainer 
by  Our  Family's  exodus,  and  now  the  very  guests 
who  watched  Prima's  baby  photographs  on  her 
dear  donkey's  back,  may  see,  any  day,  as  they 
whirl  past  in  their  touring-cars,  the  patient,  hairy 
little  fellow  pacing  slowly  through  the  institution 
grounds,  giving  hours  of  happiness  to  little  riders 
not  so  straight  and  strong,  alas,  but  no  less  de 
lighted  than  she  used  to  be. 

Nini  you  shall  hardly  recognize  —  if,  indeed, 
she  condescends  to  recognize  you.  That  jolly 


PRESTO!     CHANGE!  329 

black  whirlwind,  from  whose  curly  back  you  once 
picked  the  burrs  and  brambles  after  a  wild  cross 
country  run,  paces  sedately  up  the  avenue  now 
with  a  pigskin  leash  and  muzzle.  Only  her  mane 
is  curly;  her  modishly  shaved  back  is  as  the  back 
of  a  Dresden-china  lion,  even  to  the  tuft  on  her 
tail.  Fluffy  anklets  adorn  her  dainty  steps  and 
she  wears  her  city  license  about  her  neck  as  a  de 
butante  wears  a  jewelled  locket. 

And  who  are  these  beside  her? 

The  elder  lady  is  in  pearl-colored  spats  and  re 
gards  the  world  through  a  spotted  veil;  the  younger 
ladies  on  either  side  of  her  walk  discreetly  in 
brown  buttoned  boots  and  brown  stockings,  which 
are  not  only  undarned,  but  have  no  need  to  be 
darned  -  -  has  Nini  forgotten  the  careless  sandals 
that  used  to  trot  beside  her  twinkling  legs  ?  Well- 
pressed  blue-belted  coats  encompass  these  younger 
ladies,  and  hats  of  Milan  straw  ornamented  with 
bunched  rosebuds  shade  their  eyes.  Their  hands 
are  gloved.  Does  Nini  think  at  all  of  the  torn 
sweaters  and  tam-o'-shanters  stained  with  brook 
water  that  she  followed,  barking,  over  the  pasture 
and  through  the  white-birch  grove?  Now  they 
are  going  to  the  National  History  Museum  to  see 
the  skeleton  of  the  dinosaurus  —  a  monster  relic, 


330  ON     OUR     HILL 

doubtless,  and  worth  the  intelligent  attention  of 
Easter-holiday  visitors,  but  unlikely  to  excite  un 
duly  the  experienced  students  of  the  Rembrandts 
in  the  Metropolitan  Museum  of  Art  and  the  octo 
pus  in  the  Aquarium. 

And  who  is  this  youth  beside  them?  You  re 
member  him  in  handed-down  coats,  perhaps  ?  No 
more;  he  sports  a  tan  ulster  and  a  jaunty  hat  ob 
viously  purchased  for  himself  alone.  As  he  swings 
along  he  kindly  explains  points  of  city  interest  to 
his  country  sisters,  to  their  unconcealed  dissat 
isfaction.  The  insides  of  this  boy's  hands  are 
hard;  the  back  of  his  neck,  once  ambrosial,  goal 
of  his  mother's  eager  nozzlings,  smells  merely  now 
like  the  back  of  a  little  boy's  neck  —  nothing 
more,  nothing  less.  He  possesses  a  hideous  gray 
garment  called  a  football  suit;  he  steals  money 
wherever  he  finds  it  (according  to  his  sisters),  or 
picks  up  such  stray  coins  as  he  stumbles  over  (to 
quote  his  own  words),  and  buys  sweets  at  school 
with  them.  He  would  sell  his  Mother's  shoes  for 
money  to  buy  sweets.  He  slips  into  the  little 
apartment  kitchen,  bullies  the  new  cook,  and  runs 
out  with  chocolate.  When  accused  of  such  an 
action,  he  denies  it.  And  the  purer-browed,  the 
wider-eyed  his  denial,  the  more  flagrant  the  offense 


P  R  E  S  T  O  !     CHANGE ! 


331 


may  be  presumed  to  be.  He  is  reported  to  have 
kicked  the  cook;  it  is  darkly  hinted  that  some 
member  of  Our  Family  has  been  heard  to  call  the 


Now  they  are  going  to  see  the  skeleton  of  the  tlinosaums 

boy  who  carries  us  up-stairs  in  the  electric  lift  — 
it  seems  too  dreadful  to  tell  this !  Nobody  who 
lived  on  Our  Hill  was  ever  known  to  call  anybody 
else  a  darned  old  liar ! 


332  ON     OUR     HILL 

He  has  had  tonsillitis.  He  has  had  chicken- 
pox.  He  may  at  any  moment  have  anything. 

"Tertius  says  there  are  six  words  that  can't  be 
said  to  women/'  Prima  reports  scornfully.  "Isn't 
he  silly?  I  said  to  him,  'I  suppose  you  can  say 
them  to  Mother,  can't  you?'  But  he  said  not. 
Why  don't  you  ask  him?" 

"I  shouldn't  dream  of  asking  him,"  says  Our 
Mother  shortly. 

Vainly  she  ponders  over  them  --  the  six  words. 
Across  the  gulf  of  them  she  stares  doubtfully  at 
her  son.  He  smiles  kindly  back  at  her.  Picker- 
up  of  unclaimed  money  (to  put  it  most  pleasantly) , 
kicker  of  cooks,  stealer  of  sweets,  at  least  he  shall 
preserve  the  innocence  of  his  women. 

On  the  fine-grained  ivory  of  his  temple,  just 
where  the  flush  of  his  cheek  meets  it,  there  looms 
a  great,  raw  scar. 

"Oh,  Tertius!     Precious,  how  did  you  do  it?" 

"I  fell  down,"  he  vouchsafes  with  brevity. 

"Oh,  darling,  how  horrid!     How?" 

"On  the  gravel." 

"You  must  have  been  running  very  hard  to 
skin  it  so?" 

"I  was." 

"How  did  you  happen  to  slip?" 


PRESTO!     CHANGE!  333 

"A  boy  pushed  me." 

"O-oh.     Did  he  get  hurt,  too?" 

"He  fell  on  top." 

"Oh." 

What  difference  does  it  make  how  old  a  boy  is, 
once  he  is  as  old  —  as  that  ? 

At  eight  in  the  morning  he  forges  across  the 
street,  increasingly  scornful  of  Thora's  guiding 
hand,  climbs  into  the  big  white  school  bus,  and  is 
swallowed  up  for  the  day. 

Only  at  tea-time  does  the  returning  bus  dis 
gorge  him,  soiled  and  fatigued,  and  for  a  few  mo 
ments  only  after  tea  can  the  card-table  and  Our 
Mother  between  them  prop  open  his  sleepy  eyes. 
Mere  crumbs  of  his  daily  life  fall  into  her  lap: 

:< To-day  we  heard  a  quite  nice  concert,  mostly 
violins.  .  .  .  To-day  there  was  a  interesting  leck- 
shure  about  brown  people,  far  away.  .  .  .  To 
day  we  had  practise  football  with  the  middle-school 


— soccer." 


Feed  your  goldfish,  woman  !  Clip  your  poodle ! 
Go  on  committees  and  boards  to  prevent  different 
things  (or  to  bring  them  about)  !  So  long  as  you 
are  present  to  escort  your  children  to  the  dentist 
at  Easter-time,  what  more  shall  any  well-con 
ducted  school  ask  of  you? 


334  ON     OUR    HILL 

Nor  is  it  only  our  immediate  family  that  has 
suffered  a  town  change. 

"Cezar  is  very  difirint,"  Tertius  writes  his  sis 
ter.  "As  soon  as  we  came  to  N.  York  he  had 
three  kittens.  Mother  says  we  have  all  of  us 
changged  but  him  most  of  all.  He  was  allways  a 
boy  cat  untill  now.  I  hope  Ninet  will  never 
change." 

After  Caesar's  metamorphosis,  it  seemed  to  Our 
Mother  that  she  could  never  feel  the  same  about 
anything  again. 

"It  is  easy  enough  to  call  him  Cleopatra,"  she 
scolds  nervously,  "but  what  am  I  to  call  you, 
when  you  keep  changing  so?" 

Tertius  considers  this  seriously. 

"I  wouldn't  bother  to  find  different  names,"  he 
says  soberly,  "because,  you  see,  however  much 
there  might  be  changes  to  me,  I'd  always  have  to 
be  your  boy.  It's  not  like  cats,  I  don't  think." 

"You're' very  sweet,"  she  says;  "but  see  how 
your  legs  dribble  over  —  they  go  down  to  the 
floor.  You  can't  sit  much  longer  on  my  lap. 
And  Prima,  with  low  heels,  is  up  to  my  ear.  It's 
no  use  pretending." 

"But  you  don't  have  to  pretend,"  he  persists 
gently.  "Don't  you  see  that  the  minute  I  get 


PRESTO!     CHANGE! 


335 


too  big  to  sit  on  your  lap,  you'll  be  small  enough 

to  sit  on  mine?" 
"Oh,  Tertius!" 

(Will  he  always  say  such  darling  things  ?) 
"And  another  thing,"  he  adds  cunningly.     "I 


You  can't  sit  much  longer  on  my  lap" 


336  ON     OUR    HILL 

can  dance  with  you,  when  I'm  bigger  —  you'll  like 
that,  you  know." 

"Oh,  Tertius!" 

"And  then,  when  I'm  big  enough  to  be  married 
and  have  babies,  you  can  hold  them,  if  you  want 
to  hold  something,"  he  concludes. 

"You  seem  to  have  covered  all  the  ground,"  she 
sighs  contentedly.  'You  do  look  out  for  every 
thing  so,  Tertius,  darling !  You  may  all  grow  up, 
if  you  like,  now,  for  all  of  me." 

But  around  Our  Hill,  like  the  pure  air  that 
bathes  its  dawns  and  sunsets,  the  memories  of 
their  happy  childhood,  she  is  sure,  will  always 
float  and  sing. 


.-..^. 

/  ^*p^ 


*»P 


f 


ENVOI 
THE  PARENT'S  COMPLEAT  APOLOGY 

I'VE  taught  you  what  you  wouldn't  learn, 
I've  hidden  what  you  would  have  guessed, 
I've  spurred  you  out  of  happy  ease, 
I've  pinned  you  down  to  hated  rest. 
The  reason  why,  you  may  not  know — 
It  was  because  I  loved  you  so ! 

If  I  have  chid  you  for  your  best, 
If  I  have  praised  you  for  your  worst, 
If  where  you  slighted,  I  have  blessed, 
If  where  you  labored,  I  have  cursed — 
You  will  forgive  me  when  you  know 
It  was  because  I  loved  you  so ! 

Had  you  a  fault  that  once  was  mine? 
That  fault,  my  dears,  I'd  ne'er  condone ! 
Should  gifts  and  graces  in  you  shine, 
I'd  scorn  them — if  they  were  my  own ! 
'Twas  puzzling  then,  but  now  you  know 
It  was  because  I  loved  you  so ! 

Although  I  thundered  in  my  wrath 
At  all  your  tiny,  childish  slips, 
And  haled  you  into  virtue's  path, 
A  pensive  band,  with  quivering  lips, 
You  will  be  gentle,  dears,  I  know — 
Because  your  mother  loved  you  so! 


LD  21A-50m-8,'57 
(C8481slO)476B 


RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


OUR  HILL 


THE 

DIE  HOUSEII 
I  FRANCISCO  | 


